Night Everlasting
by Dem0nLight
Summary: She had been his light, his life, his everything. But that light had been extinguished. All he could do now was wait to fall apart. (sequel to "Unwilling Night".)
1. Silent

_A/N: Hello and welcome to the new story! Before we begin, I'd like to extend my thanks to everyone who supported the story Unwilling Night till the very end, including my most recent reviewers: Lady Weavile 461, Emozenith (you just keep giving me happy tingles!) and Akage987!_

 _(Also, the cover art for this fic was drawn for me by VerdeICe! Gracias amigo!)_

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

Gangrel stood alone in the training grounds, his practice blade thudding against the padded dummy again and again. It was a mindless repetition, the same strikes over and over again.

The Mad King had gone through a transformation in the last month and a half, and it was not a positive one: he ate less than usual, hardly consuming more than a pound of food a day,and practiced drills with a near obsessive frequency. He was also refusing to sleep until his body gave up on consciousness altogether. As a result, he had lost too much weight, his skin stretched taut over his muscle, and his features were gaunt. He hardly looked like himself; it were as if he had aged twenty years.

Lon'qu was watching him practice. The Plegian showed absolute indifference to anyone and anything that crossed his path these days, so the Shepherds would occasionally take up the task of keeping an eye on him. Gangrel simply didn't care anymore.

The Feroxi swordsmaster stepped forward and placed a hand on the trickster's shoulder, halting the endless attacking.

"I would like to join you," Lon'qu said in his usual deep tones. Gangrel turned away from the dummy and brought his blunted blade up in something of a salute. The Feroxi returned the gesture and they added a few paces of distance between them. Without needing words, they charged one another.

Again and again their blades crossed, steel ringing. Lon'qu was silently impressed at the force Gangrel was mustering in his swings, but that completely expressionless face was worrying to say the least. It were as if his soul had been drained out of his body, leaving a pale imitation of the brilliant personality that had once resided there.

Morgan was watching over his father-as always-from the camp. These past several weeks had been stressful for him, and he was doing his best to care for Gangrel, but it was difficult when the older man refused to acknowledge the person trying to help.

"At it again?" said a voice with a distinctive country twang.

"Yep," the grandmaster replied. Donny shook his head, pot wobbling at the motion.

"Least he's gotta way to cope some," the former farmer remarked. "When my Pa passed, Ma and I had to work the fields to help us keep goin'. I was plumb right terrified when Gangrel refused to eat at all the firs' week. Thought he'd waste away. But he's gotten a bit better, ain't he?"

" _Only_ a bit," Morgan muttered. "He still hasn't spoken a word since...that day."

There was an uncomfortable silence between the two as they continued to watch the duel. Lon'qu called for a halt and gestured for Gangrel to come sit with him for a rest. The trickster obeyed, his apathy never fading one jot, and stared numbly ahead, seeming to not take anything in.

"He will get better...right?" Morgan asked plaintively. Donny shrugged.

"Up ta him. 'Course if Nisha does come back like she promised, I bet he'll turn around right quick."

"Somehow, I don't think Father is looking for a miracle," the grandmaster muttered.

"That's up ta him," Donny repeated. "All ya can do is be there for 'im."

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck anxiously, heaving a sigh. The farm boy patted him on the back comfortingly.

Gangrel's head turned towards where his son and Donny stood, his face expressionless. He did not acknowledge that they were there, just looked blankly at them. It were as if he were trapped in his own little world, unable or unwilling to break out.

"Do you wish to continue our match?" Lon'qu asked the Mad King softly. The Plegian gave no sign he had heard the words aside from standing again and resuming his attack on the practice dummy.

The swordsmaster got to his feet as well and watched Gangrel for a moment before he left the training ground, taking a moment to rest his palm on Morgan's shoulder in an act of sympathy. Then both he and Donnel strode off into the rest of the camp in silence, leaving the young man to watch his father sadly. At length, he strode towards the older man and spoke softly.

"Father...I think you've done enough for today."

The trickster paused for a moment before he sheathed his practice blade in the dummy's gut and stepped back, allowing himself to be lead away. He didn't care where Morgan took him; it wouldn't change anything.


	2. Paths

_A/N: Wow. Nothing but good thoughts so far. I feel loved! 3_

 _Hugs for my reviewers! Landser03! (You sir, have some incredible speed! Four minutes old and one review! You have my thanks.) Brenna Snow! (There's more where that came from!) Emozenith! (I swear, you are psychic. You just summarized this chapter.) Gunlord500! (Haven't seen you in a while! Welcome back!) Guest! (Jun 29; Hope you haven't gotten bored in your sitting!) And Phoenix To Flame! (it's helps to write Donny if you say it out loud. I try to mimic his voice.)_

 _Warning: This chapter contains severe depression and emotional turmoil._

* * *

"I wish you the best of luck on your travels," Chrom said fervently to the small group before him. As usual, the Shepherds stood behind their leader at the proceedings. Or rather, most of them did; the crowd behind the bluenette Exalt was smaller than it usually was. The reason for which was actually right in front of them, to be completely honest.

"We'll be sure to keep in touch," Flavia added, smirking. "I might need your help in the next tournament keeping Regna Ferox out of this oaf's hands."

"Or maybe I'll get to them first," Basilio joked. The Eastern Khan rolled her eyes and punched her Western counterpart hard in the arm.

It was the day the whole army had known would be coming: the Khans were returning home to their country. They would be accompanied to the Longfort by several other Shepherds who either wished to return to their home countries like Say'ri and Virion or no longer wanted to serve as standing members of the force and had made their own private plans for the rest of their lives such as Priam or Walhart. Once they reached the Feroxi border, they would all go their separate ways.

All loose ends had been tied. Now it was time to separate.

As friends said their last few goodbyes, the Chon'sin princess looked at where Morgan stood, his father directly behind him like some sort of bizarrely tall shadow. She struggled for a moment before she placed her pack down and approached the pair. After a few brief words with the grandmaster, Say'ri stood before the Mad King of Plegia, staring hard into his flat ruby eyes. She raised her hand, index finger extended, and pressed it against his chest firmly.

"Do not lose heart," she told him firmly. "Lose that and she might as well never return."

Say'ri saw a brief expression cross his face, saw the agony in his eyes at the mention of his beloved tactician, before it was swallowed in the blank mask of miserable apathy again. She knew how that felt. Not only had her real brother died at her hand, but now the one from an alternate reality she thought might help heal the hole inside her had vanished as well. She was as alone as he. But she did not expect him to understand this. All she wanted was for him to not lose what he had gained.

Gangrel did not speak, as had become the new norm, but he did give Say'ri a small bow that promised nothing. The princess knew she would get no more response and so she rejoined the group of those leaving. She did not look back as she left.

The trickster watched them all go without any sign of emotion. Morgan looked up at his father, wondering what was going through his head as he watched the army diverge paths.

What the young man was unaware of was that deep inside his stony shell, Gangrel waded through a raging sea of agony. He was strangely numb—aware of the pain and feeling it with full intensity, but somehow able to continue functioning. Barely functioning that is. He could see what went on around him, but none of it was of an importance to him. Not even the boy Nisha had charged him with protecting could draw his attention away from the pain for more than a moment or two.

"Come on," Morgan said, his voice cutting through the haze in the Mad King's mind for a moment. "Let's go to the mess tent; it's my turn to cook."

He followed of course. What else could he do? Gangrel would just continue on feeling this torment regardless.

* * *

Despite that they had lost several people and wagons worth of supplies just a few days before, the Shepherds were making horrendusly slow progress across Ylisse. Chrom insisted that he check every open field they came across. Nobody needed to ask why.

The young Exalt stood with his sister on the crest of a hill, overlooking a great plain covered in wildflowers. Morgan stood in the valley below, gathering some of the blossoms into a small bunch. Gangrel stood beside Chrom, watching his son blankly.

"This would've been a great place for her," Lissa commented cheerfully. "The colors are so bright!"

"Well maybe that's where Morgan got his appreciation for flowers," Chrom chuckled, unaware that the Mad King had turned to watch the two royals instead of the young grandmaster below.

"Except she doesn't like picking them. She'd rather leave them be to grow and wither naturally."

"Well..." the bluenette shrugged, "I suppose we should move on. There's a village less than a day's journey from here. If we continue on—"

"Why do you keep looking?"

Both Chrom and Lissa fell silent immediately, startled at the new voice. They turned to stare at Gangrel. For the first time since battling the Fell Dragon, the trickster's vivid eyes were focused as he watched the brother and sister beside him. Not only that...but he had _spoken_. Granted, it had been soft, his voice hoarse from disuse, but it was five words more than he'd said in weeks. The Plegian scowled.

"Why do you keep looking, princeling?" he repeated harshly, a touch of anger coloring his tone.

"I...because she's bound to come back eventually," Chrom replied, a little dazedly. "I have faith in the bonds she made with us. Don't you?"

"Nisha," Gangrel growled, "is dead. And I tire of trudging across Ylisse, checking every valley along the way on some foolish notion of faith. The grave doesn't yield her dead, so why waste your time?"

"You—" Lissa started angrily, but her brother's hand on her shoulder forestalled her words.

"It's not a waste," the Exalt said firmly, "because Nisha is our friend. I don't believe she's dead. And Gangrel...if you can't believe something on faith and faith alone...then you're doomed to a life dominated by doubt. That's no way to live. "

The Mad King gritted his teeth, his hands curling into fists. Without another word, he stalked down the opposite side of the hill and out of sight. The trickster shook with rage every step of the way. How dare the princeling talk down to him, like he was an ignorant child! It was _he_ who was the child, unable to let go, afraid of the fact that she was really gone and never coming back.

Gangel howled and slammed his fist into hard earth, his breathing heavy. It felt like he were being consumed with fire. Coming out of the numbness and detachment did that too him. Biting back a scream, the man curled up into a ball, hands shielding his head. It would pass. He just needed to shut down and the pain would fade.

He didn't know how long he was there, but the burning began to stop, softening into a dull ache. By the time Morgan found him, the process was complete and he looked up at his son with blank eyes once again. The barricade against his emotions had returned and he couldn't feel a thing.


	3. Unearthed

_A/N: Here's a (slightly problematic) formula: me+too much time+ideas=chapters coming out at a sinfully fast rate._

 _But, as always, I must thank my reviewers: Cloud9timeforEmu (would it be wrong to say I enjoy it?) Brenna Snow, Emozenith (stop reading my mind!) Guest (Jul 5; glad to hear the fic's getting the rounds on the interweb!) and Phoenix to Flame (Thanks for letting me know; I took you up on your suggestion)_

 _Warning: This chapter by itself could probably earn the T rating for the whole fic. Blood and violence wait below as well as emotional turmoil (and I do not use that phrase lightly)._

* * *

Morgan smiled as he walked through camp that evening. Lucina had been most appreciative of the flowers he'd found in the meadow, even hugging him. His work largely done for the day—his father had retired to his tent of his own accord after dinner, which had been something of a relief to the boy; perhaps the older man was regaining some sort of self-control. Deciding he needed to talk with someone, he went to the campfire.

It was quite the hub of activity: Stahl was arguing playfully with his son Gerome, Henry was unashamedly snuggling with Maribelle (who looked rather embarrassed) and Noire was playing with her bowstring while Yarne chattered to her in his usual jittery and excited tones. Morgan chose to sit between Maribelle and Stahl, releasing a relieved sigh as he hit the ground.

"Heya Morgie!"

Only one person would call him by that nickname. And it wasn't his adopted Uncle or the noblewoman on his other side either.

"Hello Henry."

"What's got you so cheerful?" the sorcerer chirped, peering around his wife. "You've been so blue lately your hair should have turned purple!"

"I'd look terrible with purple hair!" the grandmaster protested.

"You sure? I can always change it up so you can see for yourself!"

"No thank you," Morgan replied, brushing his bangs out of his eyes. "Anyway, I just went to go talk to Lucina. She liked the flowers I found in the field today."

"Ooooh! Morgan and Lucy sitting in a tree—"

"Henry!" Maribelle reprimanded her husband sharply and he fell silent, burying his face in her neck. The blonde turned to the young man, her expression apologetic before it faded under curiosity. "So you and Lucina are officially courting now, yes?"

"Sorta," Morgan answered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

"How do you 'sort of' court a girl?" Maribelle asked, bewildered. "Either you are or you're not."

"Well...it's complicated."

"Your dad or her dad?" Henry blurted, peeking up again.

"Mine," Morgan sighed. "Chrom's just glared warningly a few times, but he hasn't said anything. But Father... I'm not sure if he's approving or not; even on his good days, he's hard to read."

"MKG's got a plate full of emotions, but he's not the judging type. C'mon, look at him! He's engaged to Nisha!"

That rather blunt reminder about the cause of Gangrel's apathy earned Henry both a strike from Maribelle's parasol and being pushed away from her, despite his attempts to cling.

"Thanks for the comfort attempt, Henry, but that's only part of the reason," the grandmaster admitted. "The other part is that I don't want to leave him alone so I can be with Lucina all the time."

"Have you told this to her?" the blonde noblewoman inquired, still fending off her husband.

"Of course. She's been really sweet and patient about the whole thing too."

"You want my advice?" Stahl interjected, his own son having left for one reason or another. "Don't make her wait. She's patient, but nobody can wait forever; she might just leave you for someone else."

"Well, I suppose that makes sense...but...Father—"

"Better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission," the Paladin cut him off, his expression sad. "Trust me on this one, Gangrel is very familiar with that policy; he'll understand."

Morgan lapsed into an unhappy silence, resting his chin on his palm. He stared into the flames, thinking about what he had been told. It was then he felt his scalp itch, the skin crawling uncomfortably. He ran a hand through his hair then froze.

"Henry..." he intoned sternly.

"Now your hair matches your cloak!" the man-child chirped, grinning like it was the best idea he'd ever had.

"Turn. My hair. Back. _Now_."

"You'll have to catch me!" Herny crowed, darting away.

Morgan jumped to his feet, yelling abuses while his prey cried "wheeeee!" Maribelle glanced sideways at Stahl.

"Unless I'm very much mistaken," she remarked, as one would on the weather, "I believe Morgan just channeled a little bit of his father just now."

"He's been forcing himself to grow up, to take care of Gangrel," Stahl sighed. "I wish I could say that was the first time the stress made him act so irate."

Meanwhile, Morgan had managed to tackle Henry to the ground, the sorcerer laughing his head off.

"Henry, undo the spell," the grandmaster growled.

"Red hair would look good on you angry," Henry commented as if in agreement, grinning wider. "You look so much like you're dad."

"I take after Mother," Morgan protested automatically, a little taken aback.

"Not recently. You and Ganny are like little peas in a pod! So upset all the time! Nisha might have to look real close to make sure you're Morgan and not MKG the second!"

That drew Morgan up short. Henry took the opportunity to wriggle free and run off to the woods, yelling something about talking to flowers. He heard armored footsteps coming behind him, but he didn't need to look; he had a sneaking suspicion of who it was already.

"Judging by your hair, I'd say you didn't manage to catch that little raven," the green-clad paladin said softly. He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure the spell will wear off in time."

"Uncle Stahl?" Morgan whispered, gaining a curious glance from the man in question. "Do I seem...angry all the time to you?"

"No," Stahl answered without any hesitation. The young man raised a sceptical eyebrow at him. "I'm serious. You've had a few incidents and you've been more sensitive than you used to be, but you just lost your mother; it's a natural reaction to have some crazy emotions. But you're still our cheerful Morgan behind all that."

"Henry...Henry said that Father is always angry. That I am like him."

"Henry is rather tactless; he just spews whatever's going on in his head," the brunette comforted his adopted nephew. "And he was right about Gangrel being angry most of the time: every time he comes out of that silence for even a moment, he's ready to lash out. But Gangrel...he's Gangel. You don't need to worry about being too much like him: you've got too much of Nisha in you."

The tension in Morgan's shoulders faded and he relaxed again. Stahl ruffled his hair affectionately.

"The purple's fading some around the roots," he remarked. "And I'll tell you what: I'll talk to Chrom and ask him to set up a volunteer system so you don't always have to keep you're dad in your sights. I think it would be good for you to relax every once in a while. That okay with you kiddo?"

Morgan wrapped Stahl in a sort of half-hug, reaching up so he could wrap his arm partially around the paladin. The gesture was returned without hesitation.

* * *

"The villagers have already fled the town," Chrom announced to the small armed group before him. "If there are any left, do what you can to support them. Now, let's give these plundering bandits what they deserve!"

There was a rallying shout of acknowledgment as everyone split off. Soon, the Exalt was alone. Or rather, as good as alone; Gangrel hadn't moved an inch.

Gangrel's participation in the peacekeeping had been an issue of much debate among the Shepherds for the past several weeks. Many of the Ylisseans had thought it a bad idea to let the Mad King handle a weapon—some out of a fear that he would harm himself, others out of worry for themselves—but so far, none of their predictions had been realized: Gangrel simply did as he was told, mechanically and without any indication of free will. It was still uncertain whether that was a good or bad thing.

"I want you with Morgan," Chrom ordered, knowing the trickster would just stand there until given instruction. He didn't need to elaborate on anything else because the ever-silent Plegian immediately turned on his heel and waded into the conflict without the slightest hesitation.

Gangrel crossed the battlefield lethargically, almost as if he were sleepwalking. The chaos around him seemed incapable of penetrating the sphere of unresponsive silence that surrounded him. His gaze was eternally fixed on the distant figure of his son, fighting alone.

An assassin suddenly leapt from the roof of a nearby home, sword drawn and flashing in the sun. The Mad King did not react to the change of circumstance, his sights still locked on his destination. The enemy charged, drawing his arm back to strike...

Blood sprayed into the air. The assassin crumpled to the ground, a gaping wound stretching from his right shoulder to his left hip. Gangrel did not even blink as his sword arm, torso and face were coated in sticky scarlet liquid, not a break his stride.

He reached his son without further incident.

Morgan turned to glance at his father, but immediately did a double take.

"Father! Are you alright?!"

He was answered with a blank stare, those crimson eyes as flat and emotionless as stone. Morgan's brow furrowed, but he did not press the issue.

"Just stay by me, do as I do. Got it?"

Lifeless nod. The trickster took his position beside the young grandmaster, mirroring his movements and cutting down any attacker who came within reach of his blade with cold efficiency.

Then, when an enemy mage came just out of range, Gangrel abruptly abandoned his mindless following and strode over to the young man. The brigand cast wind spells to no avail; the Mad King would not be stopped. His face did not change from its flat, emotionless expression as he pressed ever onward, which only seemed to alarm his target all the more. With a powerful blow, the mage was knocked to the earth, and Gangrel rested his boot on his opponent's chest.

A sickly grin wormed its way up the Mad King's features. The slightest flick of his wrist opened a long cut over the mage's face. The man's pupils contracted in terror and the smile grew into a predatory leer.

"Tell Grima I said hello," Gangrel purred before the razor edge of the sword slid over his victim's jugular. The resulting fountain sent flecks of blood spiraling into the air.

Gangrel threw his head back and laughed. Without ceasing the demented sound, he threw himself at the enemy line, throwing all caution to the winds in a frenzy of sword strikes and scarlet liquid.

More blood sprayed into the air, sometimes accompanied by fingers, hands, or heads. In less than ten minutes, the entire attacking force had been routed, what few survivors there were fleeing from the red-haired demon cutting through their ranks.

When Chrom came to fetch Gangrel, he found the man drenched in scarlet, a pile of corpses lying in a lake of blood at his feet. And he was laughing; grinning like a hyena having just found a carcass and chuckling darkly as if this were the most fun he'd had in ages. And yet...the laughter didn't sound happy. In fact, it sounded far closer to sobbing.

* * *

He couldn't stop smiling. It had been hours since the Shepherds had set up their camp and Gangrel had been sickly grinning the entire time. No words, just that disturbing smile set on his face.

He hasn't cleaned himself either: dried blood—most of it belonging to people who had died today—coated his clothes and skin. His hands were especially stained, almost black with the dried fluid.

Night had fallen and Gangrel sat alone outside his tent. He still didn't respond to what anyone said or did around him, but it was not with the same disconnected stare as before. No, now it was a more focused form of ignoring his surroundings, seeming very aware of the people he refused to respond to.

But as the stars moved along in the inky sky, the smile slowly faded into a contemplative expression. The trickster got to his feet and made his way out of the camp, silently moving through the trees. He stopped at the bank of a small creek, watching the silver light of the moon glistening on the water.

Gangel knelt on the soft earth, undoing his cloak from his shoulders. When it slipped free, the Mad King allowed it to fall as he removed his shirt.

The water was cool, but not cold like he had expected it to be. The trickster scrubbed at his hands, letting the grime leave his skin to float down the lazy path of the creek. When his hands were clean, he scooped up the shining water and rubbed at the coagulated blood caked on his face and neck.

With every fleck of blood that came off his skin, the perverse joy that had been festering inside his chest lessened soft blankness returning. It was almost peaceful, this slow removal of all emotion, of all feeling. But he felt more present, more focused. Emotionless, yes, but functioning far better than he had before. It were as if the violent bloodshed of the afternoon had awaken something inside him. He hardly noticed the hollow ache inside.

Was this improvement? That remained to be seen.

The Mad King splashed the cool water onto his face again before he rose to his feet, wiping the beading droplets away. He left the shirt and cloak on the ground; he had others, and both were stained too deeply for a simple washing to cleanse them. He paused as he looked at the once-clear stream, watching black ribbons of blood weave through the beams of moonlight, obscuring the light for a few moments before they slipped away.

As Gangrel watched the water, he did not notice a pair of pale brown eyes appraising him from the shadows of the forest. When the Mad King left, the figure slipped out from behind the trees and extended their hand. The pile of clothes floated off the ground and rested lightly in the long-nailed hand. The fingers closed over the fabric.

"Soon, milord," a woman's voice purred.

* * *

 _A/N: I cracked up writing for Henry. So hard. The nicknaming was fun as well. But blast his tactlessness!_


	4. Empathy

_A/N: I hate typing up things after I write them on paper. I always end up changing things! But while I was writing, my sister would read over my work and apparently I only take breaks from writing when I've written a cliffhanger sentence. (BTW, the inspiration for this chapter is fairly obvious. Kudos if you recognize it.)_

 _Phoenix to Flame (Henry explained my reasoning for the color, but that's an interesting coincidence!), Brenna snow (As always, thanks for the review!), Emozenith(Fixed some of those errors. And seriously, are you psychic?!), and Guest (Jul 13;Glad to know I gave you feels!) y'all have my endless thanks._

 _Warning: More blood and graphic imagery. If you are easily freaked out by gruesome acts, skip the third section._

* * *

Olivia closed her eyes as she reached the height of her routine, her focus flooding through every inch of her body. Here, out in the woods where nobody was watching, she felt safest smoothing out the rough patches in her newest dance. Her husband had often remarked it was a risk for her to be out all alone, but the dancer didn't see what was so wrong: they weren't at war anymore and she had been doing this for years without incident—even before she had come to know the Shepherds. In any case, other members of the army came to and from the forest on their own plenty of times. Olivia figured her husband was secretly worried she was dancing _for_ somebody out here among the trees and was just being paranoid.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The pink-haired woman released a squeak of alarm, halting her dance mid-pirouette, her face red all the way to her ears. She slowly completed the turn and saw three men carrying satchels and bags of supplies. One was a giant of a man, towering over his two average-sized companions. The one who had spoken was a handsome man with a distinctive crown-shaped scar on his cheekbone.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you," the scarred man continued. "But we are just simple men of commerce who have fallen among thieves. Is there a village or town nearby?"

"There are no villages for miles, though there is the camp I came from not far from here where you could rest," Olivia mumbled, pointing. Oh, she wished Chrom were here! He'd know what to say.

"How far is this camp?" the other man asked, his voice bearing a Plegian accent. He was not so handsome as his companion, his long hair matted and tangled as though he hadn't attempted to care for it in the slightest.

"Ten minute's walk."

"Then there will be nobody nearby to hear you scream, my Lady," the lead man said coldly, all friendliness evaporating from his voice. Olivia's eyes widened, but her throat was suddenly sealed off by the giant's hands and she silently choked until all went black.

* * *

All was silent in the Exalt's tent side from a pen over paper and stone sliding over metal. Chrom was seated at his desk, going over the supply count Frederick had brought him and comparing it with both the chart of monthly expenses and the gold they currently possessed.

A few months ago, he wouldn't have been doing this. If he were in Ylisstol, as he was supposed to be, he wouldn't be doing this. This paperwork was normally done by accountants or his tactician, but neither were available to him, so he had elected to do it himself.

Of course there was a second reason he was burying himself in parchment aside from necessity: it provided distraction. Distraction from a certain redhead who was busy sharpening his sword in another corner of the tent.

Chrom had brought Gangrel into his tent with him as a small favor to Lucina; she had planned something special with Morgan today and nobody else had volunteered to look after the silent Plegian. Despite wanting to help Morgan out, many of the other Shepherds were still unsure about letting the Mad King hover in the background of their normal activities. The Exalt figured he could start the trend, but if nobody stepped forward next time, he'd set up a schedule.

The trickster hadn't been distracting to Chrom since he'd changed hands, but there was an almost pressing need to check on him every few minutes—despite that Gangrel was more often then not best left to his own devices. He just seemed so... _vulnerable_ when he was silent for so long Not that he ever really was—the memory of the Mad King's recent massacre was still fresh—but the urge remained.

"Father?"

Chrom looked up to see Inigo poking his head into the tent. He set down his pen smiling and motioned for him to come in.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, his grin faltering when he noticed that his son's face was unusually pale.

"It's Mother. I can't find her."

"What do you mean?"

"I was going to practice my, um...practice with her," the younger bluenette began nervously glancing at the spot where Gangrel sat, still tending to his blade, "but when I got to our meeting place, she wasn't there. I waited for her, then looked around for her, but I couldn't see a sign of her anywhere. Then I found this."

Inigo reached into his bag and pulled out three objects, setting them on his father's desk: a long, thin dagger, a piece of folded parchment and...a golden ring studded with sapphires. Olivia's wedding ring.

Chrom seized the parchment and nearly ripped it half in his haste to open it. Once the words were exposed, he read them aloud.

"We have your queen and if you bring your army to try and rescue her, she's dead. We are willing to negotiate a price for her safe release. You may bring three companions with you to our camp five miles North of yours. Don't try anything."

The note was signed with a crown-like insignia. The tent was silent—Gangrel had even stopped sharpening his sword, serving only to strengthen the tension in the room. And then a sound cut through the air: a soft raspy chuckle. It slowly rose in both intensity and volume.

"Do you find something funny, madman?" Inigo asked coldly, turning to Gangrel. The trickster couldn't reply for several minutes, howling with maniacal laughter. He wiped tears from his eyes when he had finished, glancing sideways at Chrom with a sinister grin.

"Hurts doesn't it?" he drawled, his tone savage despite the sick smirk. "That sudden cold. The sudden inability to breathe when you learn something precious has been taken from you."

"Silence or I will cut out that filthy tongue," the young mercenary yelled, hand going to the hilt of his sword. The Mad King doubled over where he sat, clutching his stomach as he roared with laughter once again.

Inigo moved to draw his blade, but his father's hand stopped him. The Exalt watched the Plegian, his face impassive for several moments.

"Well do _you_ have any suggestions as to a proper reaction?" he asked softly. Gangrel came off his humor rather quickly, though his predatory smile remained in place.

"Glad you thought to ask, _princeling_ ," the redhead shot back, getting to his feet and sheathing his sword. "You're obviously going to barter for Queen Livvy. So, take this brat and pull his sister away from my son for the ride."

"Why you—?!"

"What purpose would that serve?" Chrom cut his son's protest off.

"It'll make you look sentimental. Weak. After all, what strong king would bring his only heirs into the line of fire as he retrieves his wife? He just gives his enemies more targets."

"And then?" the bluenette pressed, silencing Inigo again with a firm glance. The Mad King cackled, his eyes filled with a violent bloodlust.

"I think that part is fairly obvious."

* * *

The negotiations were not going smoothly so far. The small camp had been easy enough to find after a short ride on horseback and the kidnappers had come out of their large tent with their hostage in tow, but everything else had gone downhill.

The three bandits—the leader of whome bore a crown-shaped scar on his cheek and had been asked to be called as such—had made three distinct demands: Olivia's weight in gold, the freedom to leave the county without the Shepherds stopping them and a paper signed by Chrom giving them immunity from their kidnap should they ever cross the Ylissean border again.

To the brigands, they probably sounded like reasonable things to ask for: wealth, safety and no consequences for their crime. But for the royal party, they were...inconvenient to say the least.; Chrom's strong sense of justice was taking a beating just by standing there! But watching his wife tied up and standing under the giant's shadow, his own hands might have just as well been bound.

"We don't have the gold to satisfy your first demand," Chrom stated flatly. Lucina's tight shoulders relaxed a fraction when she heard him say that. "Perhaps we could give you supplies instead."

"Gold or no deal," Crown retorted. "Your queen's a lightweight as it is."

"Half her weight then," Inigo suggested. "The rest in your pick of supplies."

"Hmmm. That could work," the scarred thief mumbled, his eyes flickering to Gangrel for a moment. The Mad King had come into the negotiations same as the others—grim and stiff—but he had quickly grown bored of the proceedings and had begun to pace in the background of the conversation. In truth, it wasn't really pacing per se: Gangrel prowled behind the three blue-haired royals, his scarlet eyes riveted on the bandit trio, hand tight on his sword.

"To choose the supplies, we would have to go to their camp," Crown's second-in-command growled, folding his arms. "Perfect place to ambush and kill us all."

"The agreement made that would allow you to leave Ylisse would protect you," Lucina shot back, mirroring the man's posture. "We are not without honor."

"I have no further argument," Crown concluded, moving towards Olivia and dragging her forward a few paces. Gangrel paused in mid-stride before he moved directly beside Chrom. "So, do we have an accord?"

Chrom glanced at his children, nodding at them when they made eye contact.

"Gangrel, what say you?" the Exalt asked. The Plegian in question chuckled.

"I say," he sneered, "that we grab her royal highness and leave this hole behind us."

"Excuse me—" Crown started to say, but, fast as a viper, the Mad King threw one of his many knives. The bandit leader ducked and the silver balde lodged itself in the giant's left hand. The huge man bellowed at the pain and everything erupted into chaos. Lucina and Chrom rushed forward, both Falchion's drawn, and the future princess stood guard while her father cut the ropes holding Olivia bound. Inigo leapt into the fray and intercepted the second-in-command, leaving his family with an open escape route. Gangrel too joined in the battle, stabbing the giant in the back and twisting his blade until the man dropped dead. The Ylissean prince cried out as his opponent landed a blow on his face, opening two gashes across his cheekbones. Before the brigand could kill the boy, however, something shining streaked through the air and lodged in his forehead. The attacking man fell forward, the impact with the ground driving the dagger even further into his skull.

"Get out of here junior," Gangrel said evenly, standing over the fresh corpse nonchalantly as blood ran down to his sword tip. "I have a kidnapper to deal with, and it won't be pretty."

Inigo nodded and ran after his already distant family. The trickster turned on his heel, watching as Crown fled from him, like a deer before a wolf. Unfortunately from the bandit leader, the distance he'd put between the two of them didn't matter: Levin swords were ranged weapons after all.

The lightning downed his prey long enough for the Mad King to catch up. Crown groaned and managed to get back onto his hands and knees before and excruciating pain tore through the back of one of his knees.

"Word of advice: don't try to get up," Gangrel said conversationally. "It'll just increase the pain."

Despite his words, Crown did try to stand and only collapsed to one knee as his injured leg gave out, the gash on his calf weeping blood.

"Didn't I just tell you not to do that?" the trickster asked innocently. "Now I'll have to punish you."

The brigand screamed as the Mad King seized him by the hair and planted his boot over the cut on his leg. The pain almost made him black out as Gangrel began to put more pressure on the wound.

"Oh, am I hurting you? Perhaps if you ask nicely I'll stop."

Crown inhaled deeply, struggling to form coherent thought, much less words. His head cleared immediately when the redhead stepped off his leg, though his fist was still snared in the thief's hair.

"You call yourself 'crown', you say?" Gangrel mused, moving in front of his captive. "I must say, that scar hardly looks like a crown at all. For starters, a crown rests on one's brow."

The trickster walked to the corpse of the second-in-command, dragging his victim along with him. He plucked his knife from the man's head and shook a little blood off it. Then he knelt and touched the tip to the bandit's forehead.

Crown did not scream this time: he was too scared to make a sound. Gangrel took his time with his work, smirking to himself. Soon a ruby crown—complete with shining scarlet jewels—shown in the shallow incisions he'd made.

"Better," he commented. The brigands eyes welled with salt water and silent tears slipped down his cheeks. He shook as his tormentor leaned close to him.

"I must say, this makes me wonder who gave you that crude scar you've named yourself after," the Mad King hissed.

"A boy. Years ago. H-he caught me stealing supplies from his squadron. Back during the Ylissean Crusade in Plegia. I-I didn't think he'd be so good a fighter...he let me live, saying next time he saw me he'd kill me. S-scar was to help him recognize me."

"Well can you blame me? I do tend to hate it when people underestimate me."

Crown frowned for a moment, then his face went bone white.

"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking on that single word. Gangrel chuckled as he released the man's hair to hold him by the jaw.

"Beg louder."

* * *

Gangrel stood alone by the water barrel, splashing the cool liquid onto his face. He shook his head, his wet bangs sending a slight spray into the air. A towel entered his line of sight and he looked up to see a shyly smiling Olivia proffering the cloth. He took it with a nod of thanks and began to dry himself.

"Thank you for what you did today," the dancer murmured in her sweet voice. "I'm grateful."

"Glad I could help, Livvy," he replied softly, slinging the towel over his shoulder as he cupped his hands to get a drink.

"Um, I hope you don't mind my noticing," she suddenly added, flushing a little as he glanced back up at her, water running down his chin, "but...you seem a littler calmer than you were. More...here."

"I have the occasional moment of sanity," the trickster explained, wiping his mouth, eyes steady on hers. "Usually after a bloodbath like we had this afternoon."

"Why don't you stay like this? I mean, why go back to the quiet?"

Gangrel's face twisted into a bitter smile and looked down at his reflection in the water barrel.

"Because the pain doesn't stay away forever," he answered, his voice low. "Today, I could have let Chrom suffer, let him feel more than just a taste of what I go through every waking moment of my existence. I could have had someone to understand what coming out of the silence means."

"But you didn't," Olivia finished. "And that's why I'm so glad."

"Even if I let out the monster?" the Mad King joked quietly. The dancer smiled.

"Even so. I owe you a debt for this. Anything I could do—within reason—it's yours. You just need to ask."

Gangrel inhaled deeply, held it for a few moments, then released it slowly. He stepped away from the barrel and bowed to the Ylissean queen. her cheeks aflame, Olivia stepped up and kissed his brow before scampering away through the tents in embarrassment. The Plegian straightened up and for just a moment, he _felt_ something...

"Father, there you are! I just heard everything from Lucina! Are you alright?!"

As he silently let his son fuss over him, Gangrel savored the emotion that had come to him, that tiny spark of happiness and pride; he had to, for the darkness and depression would only return. This was but a momentary victory.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry if that last line was too sobering, but this is a sad fic so far. Ah well, I couldn't resist using Inigo in this chapter._

 _Leave a review if you liked! Feedback is love! (and it keeps me motivated to do more)_


	5. Envy

_A/N: First part of this chapter was inspired by a picture I saw and for the life of me cannot find again to give the proper credit. It's also dark (once again), so consider yo'self warned._

 _(Why do I sound so sassy yet lifeless right now? Work is sucking the life out of me. And I discovered the YouTuber WoodenToaster. *humming* 'I try my best to block out the screams, but they're haunting me in my dreams'...It's dark I tell you.)_

 _But no matter what music I listen to, nothing will stop me from loving my reviewers: Phoenix to Flame (glad you liked my writing in different POVs!) Brenna Snow (I wasn't even thinking about that. Wow.) Guest (Jul 21; **everybody** liking him would be a stretch...) Emozenith (glad you like the darkness; here's some more for you. And the kiss  was meant to be platonic; I wanted to have an excuse for cute fluff and embarrassed Olivia) T-Bone Grady (I agree, except for two reasons: first, she was taken by surprise, and second, she didn't a sword in hand. Otherwise...yeah, they'd be goners) and Guest (Jul 23; here's the moooore you asked for! And you would be the second person whose created an account after reading my fics!)_

* * *

The air was so dry you could choke on it and it reeked of rotten flesh. Screams echoed of the canyon's stone walls, of both the living and the dead. The sun beat down, its light too hot, too bright. And Gangrel was above it all, scrabbling up the walls of the canyon.

He could hear the cries of the Shepherds as they were murdered, mutilated by the army of risen below. He didn't care. His crimson eyes were focused on a distant pair of figures near the top of the canyon. One of them was holding to the edge of the stone for dear life with one arm, a sword in their dangling hand. The other was wrapped in a dark cloak, standing above them.

He had to see. He had to know...

The lower person struggled, stones falling out from wherever his feet failed to find purchase in the wall beneath him. He slipped and scrambled to get a better grip with his hands. The trickster flattened himself against the wall as Falchion flashed by, the metal ringing as it hit the rocks on the way down. He didn't look behind him, just kept on climbing.

Perhaps it was an eternity, perhaps only a moment, but Gangrel stood near the top of the canyon, just able to clearly make out the pair at the edge of the rocks. Chrom looked down into the canyon, his eyes wide and panicked, then back up at the silent woman standing over him.

"Nisha!" he cried. "Please, help me!"

Her face was blocked by her cowl; whatever expression her face bore, it was blocked from the Mad King's sight. The tactician lunged forward and put her hands on the back of the Exalt's, holding him where he dangled. Then she leaned her head down, her lips by Chrom's ear.

"Long live the king," she intoned softly. His blue eyes went wide. And Nisha let go.

The shock jarred Gangrel to the core as he watched Chrom fall just as his sword had. The Exalt didn't scream as he plummeted to his death, which somehow made the shocked cries of grief now rising from the canyon floor all the more chilling.

Nisha got to her feet, studying the chaos below as more of the Shepherds were killed in their distraction. Then she turned her head and looked straight at the stunned trickster, her face still shadowed. She came towards him and Gangrel watched her warily, unsure if she was about to throw him off the edge as well.

"Hello my King," she purred, light falling on her face for the first time. The Mad King froze, going cold all over.

Her skin, which had always been fair, was alabaster white and her eyes glowed a ruby red. But even worse were the wounds gleaming on her face: rivers of red carved into her cheeks like tears, but the blood was as bright as her new irises, and there were two more eyes etched across each of the lines. The eyes of Grima, just like the mark on the back of her hand.

Nisha's hands slid into his red hair, her fingers tangling into the strands as she smiled up at him. He could see no regret in her eyes for the deaths she had just caused.

"You need have no fear of me," the tactician murmured in his ear. "He was getting in the way. You would never do such a thing."

She stretched onto her toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. The ice encasing Gangrel's soul thawed at the contact and a twisted smile slithered onto his face. He caught hold of her chin in his long fingers and looked into her scarlet eyes.

"Of course," he growled back. "Your way is my way."

Her smile sent excited shivers down the trickster's spine and, unable to help himself, he closed the distance between them. They kissed as they were surrounded by the sounds of the dying.

* * *

Gangrel jolted awake, covered in cold sweat. His heart was pounding too hard for him to hear anything and he gasped for air as though he had been drowning. Blindly, he jumped to his feet and for a moment, he thought he struck something solid. But he could see nothing there and so flung open the entrance to his tent, escaping into the night.

The moon was a fragile crescent, but the stars seemed unusually dim. The Mad King fled from the camp, just wanting to be alone, away from the people he had heard screaming. The cries echoed in his ears as he ran. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes drawn to light.

It was a small pond, the sky reflected in its waters, fireflies bobbing like little flying lanterns. But standing there were two figures outlined in the faint glow the pond gave off. A young woman and a young man. The trickster could just make out their features, including the boy's red hair and long cloak and the girl's brilliant blue eyes—one with a pale shape shining around her dark pupil.

They were holding hands he realized. Both the future children leaned forward until their foreheads pressed together. Then the space between them vanished entirely.

Something hot stabbed Gangrel in the heart as he saw them kiss and his feet took him away from that beautiful scene. The Mad King tore through the woods, ignoring the branches that whipped against him, the stones that scraped the soles of his feet. Then something snared his ankle and he crashed hard against the unyielding earth.

Warmth coated his palms and part of his right arm, a familiar heat. He was bleeding. Gangrel pushed himself up with his uninjured arm, his fingers curling into a claw, digging into the soil with his sharp nails.

His heart might as well have been ripped in half; it felt as though the organ itself were bleeding, warm liquid spilling from slashes that had nearly torn it apart. But Gangrel knew what it really was. It was no physical wound—it was jealousy.

Morgan had Lucina—someone to love. She was good to him and they were comfortable together. Their sweet romance could have been inspiring to anyone who saw them. But the Mad King was only reminded of what he had once had—and what had been ripped away from him.

His eyes stung with salt water as he trembled, trying to fight the emotion, the agony that had been awakened so suddenly. But his resistance only fed it, making it stronger.

A tortured scream tore itself from his throat, the sound barely human. Once he started, he couldn't stop, the cry echoing through the trees. A single tear slipped free from the corner of his eye and fell onto the scrapes on his palm. The salt in the wound burned as bad as his tortured heart.

* * *

It was Tharja who found him the next morning. The dark woman looked down at Gangrel's sleeping figure with narrowed eyes. She nudged him with her foot.

His hand shot out and encircled her ankle, yanking her off balance. As Tharja landed hard on the bed of leaves carpeting the ground, she felt a rough palm and sharp-nailed fingers close around her throat. The pressure was not enough to choke her, but the grip still felt dangerous.

Her dark eyes met his scarlet and she saw that he had a split lip. Her gaze flitted over his bare arms where she saw the fresh scabs on his palm and forearm. He saw her look at his wounds and scowled, his hand tightening marginally

"Tell no one," he growled at her. Tharja saw the wild look in his eye and decided that it was in her best interest to stay silent. Slowly, one finger at a time, Gangrel released her and got to his feet.

"Morgan knows you're missing," she told him. The Mad King's expression darkened for a moment before it smoothed out, pushing his bangs back from his face. He strode past the grimleal woman, leaving her in his wake.

* * *

"He's getting worse," the gloomy sorcerer confided in Aversa as they marched later that day. "If his moods continue, he'll be dead within the month."

The sultry dark flier smiled mysteriously and she leaned over to whisper into Tharja's ear.

"Don't worry; he's strong."

"Mortal men can only stand so much," Tharja muttered. "He's close to breaking."

"When standing becomes too difficult, men kneel," Aversa reminded her friend. "Or they lean on a crutch. And I know exactly what kind of crutch he needs."

* * *

 _A/N: Finally, I get this into gear! I wanted to leave you guys another chapter before I go on vacation for a couple of weeks with a promise that more is to come._

 _Please leave reviews and suggestions! I'll be back like the terminator!_


	6. Illusions

_A/N: I'm back and I have no shame! Haha! (Sleep deprivation again! Whee!)_

 _Now, first order of business: sending thanks to all my reviewers! **Phoenix to Flame** (I've never heard the phrase "vamping on [someone]" before. hmm :/ ) **Brenna Snow** (You are not alone in finding humor there...) **Cloud9timeforEmu** (In terms of advancing the story, I'd say the reference was a 4, but in terms of viewer reactions it was a definite 10) **Guest** (Jul 29; Emozenith, is that you? If it is, then for the first time your prediction has been wrong!) **Pandora's gift** (yeah...clearly the reference is getting to everyone) and **Fallaby Z** (welcome to the madness!)_

 _And for my second order of business, a warning: this chapter contains more violence and angst, so ye have been told and can no longer sue me for catching you off guard. :P_

* * *

Gangrel stared blankly at the the wood grain of the table. The Shepherds chattered all around him, though the ones sitting close to him were decidedly quieter than the rest.

Something entered his line of vision and the red-haired man straightened up in surprise. It was a plate of food he realized after the faint emotion faded. Frowning, he glanced beside him to see who had brought him this unwanted sustenance and his scarlet eyes widened a fraction before they narrowed.

"Come now, don't look at me like that," Aversa drawled, her thin lips quirked into a suggestive smile. "It won't do you any good to starve yourself."

"What do you want?" he asked flatly, knowing that she could only be offering him this shred of kindness because she needed something from him. The dark flier's smile widened into a smirk.

"Must you always suspect some ulterior motive?"

"Must you always try to trick me into making some faustian bargain?" he shot back.

Aversa laughed at that, tilting her head back in her amusement. Or to better allow the Mad King to see her curvaceous figure; both were equally possible explanations.

"No tricks," she promised, though her smile did not change one bit to become more genuine. "I just wanted to speak to you about something."

"Then do so," Gangrel told her flatly, shoving the plate of food away from himself.

"It has to be in private," Aversa insisted. "After supper."

"You're secrecy isn't going to win you any points for my trust."

"Have some faith in me." Her tone was offended, but her smirk remained solidly in place. "I promise, you'll enjoy it more than you thought."

The black-clad temptress pushed food back towards him and rose, leaving the mess tent with purpose. Perhaps his eyes were fooling him, but for a moment, he thought he saw Aversa flash a knowing smile towards Tharja.

* * *

Aversa lounged on the ground in Gangrel's tent, smiling lightly to herself. When she heard footsteps approaching, she got to her feet and brushed off any grass that might have attached itself to her. The trickster pushed through the canvas door, scowling when he caught sight of her.

"Well?" he snapped, his tone irritable. Aversa smiled.

 _Straight to the point as usual I see._ Nevertheless, she decided to indulge him.

"You've been so _miserable_ lately," she said with a faint pout. "I've come to help you."

Gangrel snorted, rolling his eyes. Aversa smiled, her pale brown eyes lighting with excitement.

"You may be skeptical now, but I promise you, it _will_ help."

He still didn't look convinced. The seductive Grimleal grinned again before she began whispering an incantation. A veil of darkness surrounded her for a moment as the spell took its hold. When she was revealed in the light, the Mad King took a step backwards in shock.

Aversa had to repress a smirk at his stunned expression. Her illusion spell had worked, giving her the exact same features as the tactician that Gangrel so pined for. She had done her homework, double checking her memories with magic to ensure that not a hair would be out of place. Even her voice would be identical.

"You don't have to miss her anymore," she whispered as sincerely as she could. "You can have her again. Just say so."

Gangrel was perfectly still, staring at her. Then he slowly came forward, touching the side of Aversa's illusioned face. His brow furrowed.

"Does it please milord?" she inquired softly.

In a movement so fast it was probably more reflex than actually thought out, the trickster shoved the woman away from himself, sending Aversa crashing into one of the poles holding the tent up. Her enchantment faltered and she regained her usual appearance as her concentration wavered from maintaining the image to remaining upright. She glanced at the man who had handled her so roughly and saw his musing expression.

"You would be Nisha," he murmured, his voice soft and almost gentle. "I'd exchange _her_ for _you_."

Aversa straightened her spine, leaning away from the pole. Suddenly, Gangrel's hand closed around her throat, shoving her back to the wall of the tent.

"Did I say you could move?" he asked seriously, his tone dark. The sultry dark flier immediately ceased her small resistance, relaxing. The fingers on her neck slackened, but did not release her.

"Good to see you haven't forgotten your place," the Mad King remarked, his smile returning, as if his anger had been like a cloud passing over the sun. Aversa narrowed her eyes when he mentioned their previous—if incredibly unequal—partnership, but she held her tongue. Gangrel's grin widened.

"I hope you know that I mean every offense," the trickster drawled. "I mean, trying to replace the irreplaceable? How stupid are you? Or is it desperate?"

His tone was soft, almost sweet, but it was the faint piteous edge—the only audible indication of his mockery—that had the Grimleal woman struggling to stave off her rising temper. But her tormentor was far from finished.

"I must say, as far as your wicked little plots go, this is the saddest by far. Absolutely pathetic. And to think that Validar thought so highly of you..."

That did it; the dam holding back Aversa's anger shattered.

"And what about you?!" she spat. "You who lost your great war to a mere _boy_ and were slave to the lowest of the low?!"

Gangrel threw back his head and cackled.

"You can't hurt me that way," he sneered, baring his teeth in a smirk. "Nothing you could say and do could make me feel again. Nothing _anyone_ could say or do would change anything! Cut me down and I'll bleed out laughing!"

The Mad King released another wild scream of mirth. Aversa tensed as she felt his hand tighten around her throat as he doubled over, a chill settling into her chest.

"You're insane," she breathed. "You're truly insane."

" _Finally_ somebody noticed!" Gangrel crowed. "Certainly took long enough!"

The pale-haired woman murmured a quick spell that teleported her out of the trickster's hold and gingerly brushed her fingertips across the red marks.

"How?" she asked softly. "You—"

"Is it really so surprising?" He interrupted, his good mood evaporating into irritation. "My body seems intent on staying alive when my soul wants to escape. My own personal curse, it would seem."

Aversa stepped back as the Mad King advanced on her again.

"Don't you know there are consequences when you try to bring the dead back to life? Because you're about to suffer them."

"I only wanted—"

Her words were cut off as his hand seized her throat a second time, halting the flow of air to her lungs. This time, there was no leniency in his grip.

"I know what you wanted," Gangrel snarled. "And it was not to help me. Nisha is dead and no illusion of yours will change anything. If you value your life—which _I_ certainly don't—you will never make the mistake of trying to manipulate me again. Are we clear?"

Aversa choked, struggling to breathe and the Mad King scowled in disgust and contempt. Using all his strength, Gangrel threw her to the ground, folding his arms as he glared at the gasping Grimleal at his feet.

"Get out of my sight," he ordered coldly. The lovely dark flier was all too happy to comply as she scrambled to her feet and all but fled his presence. Once outside and a safe distance away from the tent, Aversa took a moment to try breathing properly again.

Her plan to use Gangrel's weakened mental state against him...to say it had backfired would have been an appalling understatement. The pale-haired woman had assumed that her intended victim would crumple at the offer to be with his beloved—even if it were nothing more than a weak lie—and had planned accordingly. But then again, Gangrel had always been a very difficult man to please; she should have seen it coming.

The sting of failure hit her pride, and it burned where it hit. _Hard_.

* * *

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth...the walls of the tent whipped by again and again as Gangrel paced feverishly. He'd been at it for hours now, and it was driving him insane. But sitting down was worse. So, he paced.

Ever since Aversa had fled the tent that evening, he'd been unable to settle down, incapable of calming his rampant emotions. Normally he could slip back into his silent state after the feelings had manifested and made themselves known, but for some reason tonight it was impossible.

His heart had always been safe behind the walls he put up, but tonight those walls had collapsed, exposing him to his true agony for one terrible moment. So his heart had defended itself in the only other way it knew how: it frosted over, letting coldness be its shield.

The trickster shoved open the tent flap and stalked into the camp. No one was awake and the fires had long since smoldered into nothing but ash. It was most likely long past midnight as Gangrel prowled outside in the shadows. He hissed a stream of frustrated curses and other spiteful words as the camp shrunk behind him in the distance.

The tents hadn't fully disappeared yet when he heard it. A low growl. The Mad King glanced around for the animal that was making the noise, finally stopping when he laid eyes on it.

It was a wolf, a skinny iron-colored creature with a matted pelt. Its hackles were raised and its teeth bared, the look in its eyes one of pure hatred. Gangrel was mildly surprised to see it so close to the army; the Shepherd's mages always set up wards to stop predators from coming nearby whenever they stopped for the night.

A long howl cut through the still air. It was distant and was soon echoed by the sounds of the rest of the pack. The wolf before the Mad King did not howl with the others, still snarling. Gangrel narrowed his scarlet eyes at the wild animal, but did not move an inch.

The staredown didn't last for long: with two long strides, the wolf closed most of the distance between them and lunged forward, going for the throat. Gangrel's battle-born instincts saves his life as he pivoted to the side, but he was rewarded with a set of fierce fangs sinking into his shoulder. The trickster's holler of pain merged with the cries of the distant wolf pack. The vicious creature did not release its bite, instead shifting its teeth so it made its way ever closer to the throat of its victim.

Gangrel staggered towards one of the trees, ramming into the trunk so that the wolf took the brunt of the impact and let go. Before it could rise and charge again, the red-haired man planted his boot on the beast's muzzle, muffling its snarls.

The wolf looked up at him with yellowish eyes, its gaze drowned in rage and hate and...despair? The pack howled again and the wolf whimpered a little before the growls returned. The animal struggled under his boot, its anger returning as if there had never been a pause.

The Mad King looked at the wild animal apathetically, contemplating what to do. He could always let the creature up and accept his death quietly. No, it would be wrong for him to die here; had he not been promised a brutal, bloody end? That only left one other option then.

The frost coating his heart began to harden into solid ice. Would the pack care that this lone wolf had died? Would they mourn? He banished those thoughts from his mind almost as soon as they arrived; there could be no hesitation: the demon had to be destroyed.

Gangrel dropped to one knee, his bent leg resting on the wolf's throat. His fingertips trailed along the leaf-littered ground until they brush against the rough surface of a large stone. He picked it up into his hand, testing its weight.

The first blow stunned the wild beast. The trickster did not hesitate as he brought the rock down again and again. Sounds escaped the wolf's throat, the beginnings of howls that never made it to their full volume before the stone made contact again. Then, on a particularly viscous swing, the red-haired man heard a skull crack and felt blood seep onto his hand.

"Have something to get off your chest?"

Gangrel slowly turned towards the shadowy figure, getting to his feet. Gaius stood against the trunk of a large tree, his green eyes taking in everything. The stained rock in the Mad King's grasp shifted as he watched the thief warily.

"Hey, didn't mean any offense," the other redhead defended himself. "Just curious. I got some stuff that'll fix your bite though, if you want."

The rock fell back to the forest floor as the two Plegians walked back down to camp. As Gaius rummaged through a bag of his loot in the corner of the tent, Gangrel sat on the grass and studied his surroundings boredly.

"Catch."

The warning caught the trickster's attention and he easily snatched the thrown object out of the air: a bottle of some kind, filled with a liquid smelling of alcohol.

"Take a swig of that," Gaius instructed. "I gotta go pick up one last thing, then we'll be good."

The Mad King wasted no time in uncorking the bottle. The drink burned a little as it went down, but he ignored the uncomfortable sensation and continued to swallow the liquid as though it were nothing more than water. By the time his host had returned, a pleasant lightness had invaded his body, every muscle relaxed. He was hardly aware of his actions as he took the staff Gaius offered him and repaired the broken and bleeding skin on his shoulder. His scarlet eyes landed on the bottle in his grasp and a dark smile crawled across his features.

* * *

 _A/N: Aaaand that's a wrap._

 _..._

 _...Yeah. The darkness is still there. *singing* And it's so easy being evil. This is the life you see, the Devil tips his hat to me. I do it all because I'm evil, and I do it all for free...your tears are all the pay I'll ever need!_


	7. Mirrors

_A/N: Back so soon? Yes indeed, with a short little something to keep this alive while I hate myself for being incapable of doing homework._

 _So, now onto the daily reviewer shout-outs! TheCrimsonAlchemist99(love your name, BTW. And we are so in the same boat on pairing preferences!) Guest(Aug 24; now sure I follow your train of thought, bud) Brenna Snow(Gangrel has pauldrons? I really can't tell from the pictures. In any case, it was nighttime, so he was unarmored anyway) Emozenith (Fixed the error! And the whole scene with the wolf...he killed it because it was a kindred spirit. This chapter might help make more sense of that.)_

 _A large part of this chapter is symbolic and stuff like that...but there's still violence._

* * *

Morgan couldn't do anything but sigh when he finally found his father after two hours of searching. There, in the alleyway behind the local tavern, sat the Mad King of Plegia, thoroughly disheveled with a bottle clutched in his hand. The young grandmaster strode over to him and grabbed his arm.

"Father, you can't stay here."

"Make me," Gangrel slurred, struggling to focus on Morgan's face. He felt he should recognize this boy, but his face was blurry. Morgan sighed again.

"Come on," he ordered, wrapping the trickster's arm around his shoulders and pulling the older man to his feet.

"Do you know who I am?!" the Mad King demanded before he slumped over unconscious.

"You're drunk; that's what you are," his son muttered, dragging his father along while ignoring all the stares.

This wasn't the first time this had happened. Morgan had actually lost count of the times he'd gone looking for Gangrel when he disappeared, only to find him drinking himself into a stupor. Where all the alcohol was coming from was a mystery in and of itself, seeing as they were rarely ever around civilization. But even worse than the actual drinking was how the Mad King acted while under the influence: he was moody, violent and even more antisocial than ever. Aversa said it was his true colors coming out.

The young grandmaster didn't know what to do: nobody did. So many of the army were believing with faith alone that their tactician would return to them, and even they were faltering some. Just a few days ago, Donny had bid the Shepherds goodbye and set off for his village to check up on his mother and help with the spring planting. His wife, Nowi, had decided to remain behind with Nah, as both were still determined that Nisha would turn up soon. Gangrel had never had that faith—there was nothing to keep him going except for his own willpower, which was rapidly being worn away.

Maribelle had briefly brought up the idea of just putting the Mad King out of his misery. Both Stahl and Morgan had vehemently objected, but the thought was now in the air. Frederick had even tried to bring it up with Chrom as a legitimate option before the Exalt shot him down.

Morgan was very aware that the Shepherds were talking behind his back, trying to come up with some solution and never had he felt more lonely. Lucina was one of the few people who even spoke to him anymore and they never spoke of Gangrel's worsening condition. Gerome wasn't much help either with his naturally reserved personality and all the other friends he had among the future children were hesitant to even be in the same area as him. Henry seemed to be the only optimist anymore, always telling the young redhead that he had a good idea of how to help, but it needed some fine-tuning before he could put it into effect.

Either way, Morgan got the horrible feeling that everything was coming to a head. And the trickster...it was becoming a more plausible reality that he might not make it.

The Shepherds' camp was a good mile from the town. This was going to be a long walk.

* * *

The barren land stretched for miles, endless cliffs of sharp stones and steep hills. Gangrel didn't know why he was here or what he was looking for; he just kept going, blindly stumbling onward.

It took forever—or maybe only a moment or two—but the mountains stood behind him now, a desert sprawling on in front. It was then he noticed a flash of light.

It was a mirror. The Mad King stepped forward, and the distance bent so he could study himself. What looked back at him was a hollow shell in the shape of a man, with lifeless eyes and a hopeless demeanor. He blinked and the image changed. Now the Mad King of Plegia, cocky and proud, smirked out of the glass.

"Come now, so depressed over one measly woman?" his reflection mocked. "I thought you were made of sterner stuff."

Gangrel did not reply. The mirror's image laughed.

"Ah well. Now that the pesky tactician is gone, you can take back your old life and continue right where you left off before the princeling ran you through. Just think of it! Without their mastermind to guide them, the Ylisseans will be helpless against the army we'll have at our disposal once we've taken back the throne."

"I can't do that," the trickster interrupted flatly. His reflection paused.

"Oh? And why might that be?"

"There's no point."

"What are you talking about 'no point'?! You could rule the world! Have everything you could ever want!"

"Not everything," Gangrel protested. "I won't have... _her_."

"Forget her then!"

"I can't." The Plegian rubbed his forehead wearily. "I love her. And without her...none of it matters."

Gangrel blinked to clear his eyes from the invading salt water. His reflection gaped at him in shock.

" _None_ of it _matters_?" it repeated, dumbfounded.

"None of it."

"But...you're the Mad King! How can you just throw that all away?"

The trickster's jaw clenched and he inhaled deeply, trying to settle his nerves, which were beginning to fray. Mirror-Gangrel slapped an open palm to his forehead.

"Oh for heaven's sake! She was just one woman!"

A small spark of anger flared in Gangrel's chest. He slowly raised his head and glared venomously at his reflection.

"You refer to her in that way again," he snarled, "and you'll learn first hand how it feels to be broken!"

The Mad King stared out from the glass incredulously. Then, it chuckled darkly.

"You think," it sneered, "that destroying this mirror will make me go away? Oh you don't get it, do you? I'm what you were—what you are—and what you always will be. No matter how much you try to change, no matter how far you run from me, you will _always_ be the Mad King. That will _never_ change."

Gangrel's pulse roared in his ears as the image of his old self began to laugh again.

"No," he growled. "NO! Aah!"

The enraged Plegian seized the mirror and thew it to the ground. Glass shattered everywhere. Gangrel looked at the cracked fragments and saw not his mocking reflection, but the image of himself, trembling with anger, eyes blazing with hatred. Just like how he used to be, before... _her_.

But his rage did not subside. Consumed with a blazing desire for violence, the wild trickster picked up the sheets of glass and hurled them against stone before he took the mirror's frame and kicked it in with his boot. He had to destroy...he had to kill...

The mountains blurred as people began to materialize out of nowhere. Gangrel slaughtered them all, barely pausing to take in the faces of the men and women he cut down. And then he froze.

Morgan. His son. Lying on the ground with his throat torn open as if by a wild animal. The corpse was the only thing that held the madman's purpose. Had he done that? Had he murdered his own child?

Fire engulfed his soul. Gangrel screamed in a mixture of rage and anguish as he fell to the earth. His chest, his chest hurt so much. He clawed at it violently, only stopping when he had torn out his own heart and the pain stopped. All was silent as a fuzzy numbness swept over his senses, smelling faintly of whiskey before all went black.

* * *

Light. Too much light. And pain. A pain in his head, behind his eyes.

Gangrel didn't need any other signs to tell him that he was awake: the hangover was becoming a regular part of the morning routine. For the moment, he was content to lie there and listen to distant voices buzz like houseflies. Whatever they were planning, it didn't matter to him; he was just a lone wolf who hung on the fringes of the pack, bound to them by choice alone. And when the lone wolf died, the pack would move on. No mourning, just forgetting.

* * *

 _A/N: ...what did I just write? This is why you don't do fanfic at 3AM! My brain was going everywhere!_

 _*Clears throat* So, if any symbolism here is completely beyond you, please PM me. I don't want y'all confused! :D_


	8. Tears

_A/N: I feel guilty almost for putting another chapter up already, but I guess that's just what happens sometimes. RIP my homework._

 _Love goes to Emozenith (sorry for any confusion!) makmix (I can't do lots of 3AM sessions because life needs me to be awake in the daytime...) Brenna Snow (close, but no cigar on the mirrors. ;) )and Pandora's gift (gives me warm fuzzies to know that you're so eager to see my stuff!)_

 _I'm too tired to really say anything else. There's another alcohol event going on in here, though. Consider yourself warned._

* * *

"Milord, we can't just keep searching the whole of Ylisse forever," Frederick told the Exalt one evening in the command tent. "We need to resupply the convoy and our stores, which will take time. Also, you have a nation to rule."

"The council is handling our affairs just fine," Chrom insisted, not looking at his trusted lieutenant.

"Plegia is due to send their representative before you in a matter of weeks," the Great Knight argued. "You are needed."

"Chrom," Olivia entreated in her soft voice, taking her husband's hand. "Please. We are all weary of being on the march."

"But what if she comes back and we are not there to find her?!" the bluenette shouted, slamming his hands on the table and rising to his feet. "We _have_ to keep looking."

"Nisha is resourceful; she'll find a way to contact us if that happens," the dancer pressed. "I know you're worried—we all are—but would our tactician really stand for you running yourself into the ground like this?"

Chrom couldn't argue with that point and slowly seated himself again, resting one hand on his forehead.

"We start towards Ylisstol in the morning," he declared sullenly. "Frederick, let the troops know."

Frederick stood and bowed to his monarch before leaving the tent. The Exalt brought both hands to his face and rested his elbows on the table, his body language reading nothing but defeat. Olivia wrapped her arms around him, stroking his cheek with one thumb.

"I'm losing hope," Chrom admitted softly.

"I know," his wife whispered. "I know."

* * *

The Shepherds walked through the ashes of the small village they had come to protect. Their search for survivors was in vain and they all knew it; the houses had been on fire and collapsing when they had arrived, the panicked survivors fleeing onto the blades of their attackers.

Gangrel nudged a charred beam with his foot, sifting through the gray remains with the tip of his sword. He was familiar with this kind of destruction: he had brought it to many a town himself. The silence was even more depressing than the digging through the ruins without hope. The only undamaged object he was able to find was a small mirror, which he had promptly shattered after seeing at his apathetic reflection in the glass.

"Find anything?"

The trickster glanced over his shoulder to see Lucina picking her way through the rubble.

"Are you expecting me to say yes?" he replied in kind. "Nothing made it. Not the houses, not the things inside them...not the people who lived here."

"This is awful," the future princess said aloud to herself. She knelt and picked up one of the mirror shards, looking at herself in it sadly. "In my time, Grima created this kind of destruction for fun. But who would do such a thing here?"

"There are some men who want nothing more than for the world to burn," Gangrel murmured. He then left Lucina behind, ignoring the curious stare he was receiving from her.

The Mad King paused at another ruined home. He poked halfheartedly at a charred body before he sheathed his sword and stalked away; he'd had enough. What he needed wasn't here and with the Shepherds occupied, he knew he wouldn't be disturbed.

* * *

Emmeryn looked sadly at the ashes, wishing that there had at least been some injured to treat. Her staff held no use in this cradle of death and she contemplated asking Chrom if they should return to camp yet.

She saw something red pass by in her periphery, and turned her head to see Gangrel striding away in the direction they had come, his expression harder than it usually was. The former Exalt watched him go, her brow denting with her concern. Where was he going?

Lissa jumped when her sister's hand touched her shoulder.

"Em?" the Princess inquired.

"Gangrel," Emmeryn said in her soft voice, her stumbling tongue struggling to translate her thoughts. "He's...leaving. F-follow?"

Lissa stared at her older sister incredulously.

"You want to follow Gangrel?" she asked. Emmeryn nodded and the younger blonde sighed heavily.

"Alright Em," she conceded. "But if anyone asks, it was your idea."

* * *

Camp was silent—unusually so. Gangrel moved past the rows of tents without bothering to hide his presence; they were all still out by the village. He pulled open the flap of the one where he slept alone and entered. The interior was mostly bare, as it usually was, but there was a small bundle hidden beside his bedroll. Taking it up, the trickster exited and crossed the camp, into another tent. This one was also empty, but not for lack of possessions. No, this tent had nothing set up because it had only been raised in the vain hope its inhabitant would return from the void.

Gangrel set the bundle on the cleared-off desk, withdrawing a cup and a bottle of whiskey from the fabric. He looked around at Nisha's tent as he opened the bottle.

"Why do they even bother setting it up?" he grumbled, filling the cup. Just as it had filled, a hand shot out and took hold of his wrist.

"Whoa! Hold on there! Wouldn't a knife to the heart be quicker?"

Gangrel blinked in surprise and turned to see the Ylissean princess glaring at him.

"Lissa," he greeted her grimly, setting the bottle aside as best he could with limited wrist movement. "Why aren't you with big brother at the slaughter site?"

"Em saw you leaving and she wanted to see what you were up to. And thank goodness she did! How often are you drinking nowadays?"

"That," the Mad King snarled, "is none of your business."

He shot a venomous glare at Emmeryn by the tent door, who had the nerve to not look even the slightest bit ashamed of herself. Gangrel shoved Lissa back, trying to get her off him.

"Seriously?!" she cried. "You don't even care anymore?! What would Nisha say if she saw this?!"

The Mad King violently pushed Lissa, hard, and she collapsed to the ground.

"Nisha is dead," he said flatly. "Now get out."

"I can't believe you!" the blonde girl yelled, getting to her feet. "What about Morgan? Haven't you thought about what this is doing to him? It's worrying him half to death! By the gods, it's worrying all of us half to death! Can't you just believe that Nisha will come back?"

"We just walked through a graveyard, Princess," Gangrel snapped, pouring more whiskey into his cup. "A site of death and destruction. And you think I can have a vain hope that she can escape that and return to me?"

"I know you're hurting, but can't you see that we're hurting _with_ you?!" Lissa cried, her eyes shining with suppressed tears. "We _all_ miss Nisha! We all know what you're going through!"

The Mad King drained his cup of its hot, bitter drink.

"You know nothing," he said lowly.

"Gangrel—!"

"YOU COULD NEVER UNDERSTAND!" the trickster screamed, throwing his glass at the princess. It missed as she fled the tent and struck the ground, shattering. Gangrel breathed heavily, a rage hotter than the alcohol burning away in his veins. And then his eyes met Emmeryn's.

Her lovely face was a mask of shock, eyes wide, hand over her mouth. He had never seen her look so... _scared_. Never, even with all the things he had done to her, had she ever looked frightened before. She had met her own demise with a serene smile. But now—when he had given up on ever feeling happiness again—she showed horror on her beautiful features. A horror he could not understand the source of.

All the anger drained away and the Plegian looked down at his clenched fists. He slowly relaxed his muscles, his fingers trembling as his hand opened up. His breath hitched in his throat. What...what had just happened? Was he regressing? Going back to the way he had been before? Was...was the mirror right? Would he soon destroy everything he touched?

...would he kill his own son?

Something stung the corner of his eyes and he looked back up at the former Exalt. For a long while, neither of them spoke, staring into the other's eyes.

"Emmeryn," he finally whispered, his voice weak. "Emmeryn...help me...please."

Her face changed from fear to concern and she managed to speak his name.

"Oh Gangrel."

His legs lost their strength and the Mad King fell into her arms, shedding the bitter tears he was always holding back. They did not move for a long time after that, the former Exalt cradling him as he wept. Gangrel clung to her like she was his only lifeline as he shook uncontrollably.

It was like nothing that the Mad King had ever experienced in his life: held like a child by his mother, staining the robes of the woman he had killed with salt water. He was there long after he had cried himself dry, just quietly shivering in Emmeryn's embrace.

"I hate myself," he said in a raspy voice. "I hate myself for living when I don't even deserve it. Everything around me dies, and _still_ my heart insists on beating. My _existence_ puts others at risk, and Chrom still won't end me."

"W-what ab-bout Morg-gan?" the gentle blonde whispered. "H-he needs you."

"He thinks he does," Gangrel muttered. "He's just clinging to me because I'm the closest thing to family I have left. But he doesn't need me; he never needed me. Sooner or later, my being around will be the death of him."

The trickster reached under his shirt and tugged out the small golden pendant, looking at it wearily.

"It's my curse," he mumbled, running his fingers over the crooked Levin sword in his grasp.

"Do you r-really have n-no ho-hope?"

"Not anymore," the Mad King admitted so quietly that he could barely hear himself. "On the first week, I tried to believe...but all it did was make me hurt more. That's why I don't dare hope: all it does is keep your heart alive long enough to maximize the pain and then it kills you"

Emmeryn stroked his hair in a soothing gesture. Something wet landed on Gangrel's scalp and he looked up to see the former Exalt silently weeping. He tugged himself free from her arms and grasped her shoulders tightly.

"Stop it," he commanded and she blinked her green eyes in surprise, another tear escaping from her lashes. "I forbid you to mourn for me."

The sage opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with his hand.

"I don't deserve your sympathy or your sorrow," the trickster said firmly, his crimson eyes hard. "I will not let you worry over my insignificant self when there are others that need your kindness more than I; I am a lost cause now. So just let me disappear quietly."

Emmeryn's eyes welled with even more tears, but as another solitary droplet escaped, the Mad King caught it on his fingertip and flicked it away. He got to his feet and went back to the desk where the whiskey bottle sat. After staring at the holder of the alcohol's hot poison for a long minute, he seized it by the neck and threw it to the ground. The glass cracked into a million pieces, the strong drink spilling into the grass, sinking into the earth. The lovely blonde woman got to her feet as well, wiping a fresh tear away. She came behind him and embraced his still form before she left the tent, allowing Gangrel some time to be alone.

He didn't move. Night fell and his body protested from lack of food and movement, but he ignored the complaints. When he finally shifted in his stance, he whispered something to himself: the lines of the song he had heard sung at funerals before.

"Why does my heart go on beating? Why do these eyes of mine cry? Don't they know it's the end of the world? It ended when you said goodbye."

* * *

 _A/N: So, here's a more emotional, revelatory piece. No, that was not a silent GangrelxEmmeryn ship. They just happened to be cute in the context of my late-night writing. They. Are. Platonic. Only Nisha and Gangrel for this author, TYVM!_


	9. Embraces

_A/N: So I just wanted to have this up ASAP, but due to length issues it took longer than anticipated. I think my life has finally fallen back into order—for the time being at least (thank you therapy). So please enjoy. *weak, exhausted smile*_

 _A very merry unbirthday to le reviewers! Brenna Snow! Emozenith (The song is from 1962, but I didn't imagine the lines following the original music. They were just words that I felt that could be adapted to a generally sad tune.) Pandora's gift! DragonkynNatKiasu! (Sorcery? *evil smile*) And Lady Weavile 461! (The feels will be resurrected in time!)_

* * *

It was strange to be under a roof again after so long in the wilderness. Even stranger to be in a palace again. Gangrel had never felt more out of place than when he walked through the gates of the Ylissean castle, surrounded by the royal guard...and not as a prisoner. True, he had been here in his kingship, but he had been with his own guards then, protected.

The people had celebrated when they had seen their Exalt come into the city with his army. They had cheered, waving flags and throwing flower petals (Seriously, did Ylissean commoners just have those on hand or something?) overjoyed to see Chrom in person. Gangrel had been silent as he followed the procession. Nobody paid him any mind as he walked through the crowd of people who he had once plotted to rule. Did they not recognize him as their enemy? Or was their trust in their king so absolute that they could accept his judgment without question?

Chrom had wasted no time in getting home to his palace, setting up sleeping arrangements in the guest chambers for all those who did not live in the castle. A few, like Maribelle, only planned to stay for a few days before going to their own homes. Gangrel didn't care. He hardly paid any mind to the fact that he was allowed to stay in the royal wing rather than being thrown out to sleep in the stables like he deserved for his crimes against Ylisse.

Emmeryn had been coming to him every night before he went to sleep. They often didn't talk much, just sitting together. Sometimes the former Exalt would speak up and say something good that had happened that day or some other positive thing, but the trickster always remained silent. Every time she left, the blonde woman would embrace him, and he would give no response other than gently touching her hand when he wanted her to let go.

For some reason, she always insisted on that hug; nothing he said or did could deter her. It was almost as if she feared he would disappear by morning. She was the only one to who he wasn't invisible.

All in all, the entire castle was a rather sullen place, even though the whole country was in celebration. Chrom was irritable whenever he had to attend his royal duties and rarely left his chambers, instead studying maps with a fervor that was only understood by a select few. Rumor had it he was planning to leave Ylisstol again with his sisters as soon as the Plegian representative arrived and departed again in a few weeks. Gangrel knew the princeling wouldn't last that long: he was too desperate for a sign that his tactician either would or wouldn't return. His hope in her return was slowly driving him to madness, as the Mad King had always known it would.

Everything was getting worse and nothing was getting better.

* * *

Gangrel was lying awake in his bed, staring up at the ceiling listlessly. He was turning his golden ring over and over again in his palm, not really thinking of anything. It was the closest thing he had to bliss. No, scratch that: it was the closest thing he had to peace. Not bliss, not happiness, not even satisfaction. Just peace.

The trickster held the ring up to the light before he slid it back onto his finger. He then sat up and stared at his hands, studying his long dexterous fingers. He had caused so much pain with these hands—even to himself. He had hoped that those days were past, that he could have worked joy for once. For Nisha, for Morgan. But that chance had gone by.

He rubbed his forehead wearily as his headache spiked in intensity again. This had been going on for almost an hour, with the pain being manageable one minute and almost unbearable the next. But this time, the pressure behind his eyes was not fading as it had before. Gangrel flipped over to bury his face in the pillow…

And suddenly he was no longer in his room.

With a start, the Mad King leaped to his feet, whirling around to see where he was. It was an open field, stretching for what seemed like forever. And it was midday too, the sun hot, white and blinding.

"Father?!"

Gangrel twisted to see Morgan sitting in the grass, looking equally stunned to find himself in this strange place.

"How did you get here?" he continued, sounding bewildered.

"Never mind the 'how'. Where _is_ here supposed to be exactly?" the trickster demanded, stalking over to his son. Morgan scrambled to his feet, looking around at the ankle-tall grass as well.

"It's my...memoryscape," the grandmaster explained weakly. "We're...well we're essentially reliving one of my memories in my head. Henry volunteered to try the spell and see if it would help my amnesia."

"I thought you were over wanting your memories back," Gangrel remarked flatly, folding his arms. Morgan rubbed the back of his neck.

"I stopped actively trying to get them. I never stopped wanting them or wondering about them," he corrected the older redhead. The Mad King scowled and made an internal resolution to punch Henry as hard as possible when he next saw him.

"So if this is _your_ memory, why am _I_ here?"

"Henry said there might be...side effects, but he didn't mention this...I suppose—"

The young man cut himself off as he squinted at the horizon, prompting the Mad King to look as well. In the distance, a pair of people were walking towards a tall building that seemed to have sprung out of the ground since they had landed in this strange place. Morgan suddenly took off running towards the two distant people, leaving Gangrel with no real choice except to follow. But when he came close enough to see who the strange pair were, he stopped in his tracks.

It was Morgan, dressed as a thief as he had been when the trickster had first met him. And there, next to him...was his father.

Gangrel looked at his mirrored self and saw that this version was a bit older with a streak of gray interrupting the red of his hair and faint creases around his eyes. He was also not dressed in the garb of a trickster, instead clad in a simple white tunic and brown breeches with well-worn leather boots. A levin sword glinted in his belt, unsheathed and roughly secured in place.

"You're sure this is where Naga said to go?" Future-Gangrel asked, shielding his eyes as he looked up at the building they were approaching.

"She was very clear," future/past Morgan replied. "Did you not believe her?"

"I've been lied to by a nearly-omniscient dragon before," the trickster replied vaguely, smiling to himself bitterly.

"We should probably hurry before Grima sends Risen after us," the younger redhead remarked. "The portal into the past will open as soon as I set foot in the building, so there's little time."

"This is one of the strangest things I've ever seen," the real Mad King commented. "And I've seen a lot."

"Shhh!" Morgan hissed, waving his hand to silence his father.

"Oh, I don't think the Fell Dragon will be using his little puppets to get to us," memory-Gangrel replied, "but yes, you should hurry."

"Father...is there nothing I can say that will change your mind?"

"C'mon Morg. You know my past. You know what the Ylisseans would do if they saw me; I'd be lynched."

"But..." the young thief looked a tad panicked. "I don't want to leave you here all alone, fighting Grima all by yourself."

"You won't," the older trickster assured his son. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold Levin sword pendant. Both Morgan's eyes went incredibly wide at the sight.

"Father—!"

"It's my decision," Future-Gangrel interrupted him. "In any case, with you going back to change all of this, it doesn't matter if I live or die because I won't exist in this time anyway."

Memory-Morgan looked disconcerted, but managed a weak smile before he suddenly gasped, clutching at his head.

"He's close," he groaned.

"Run," the Mad King ordered, grabbing his son by the shoulder for a moment before he pushed the young man towards the building. "I'll hold him off for as long as I can."

The thief nodded, then turned to look at the large building a tad apprehensively before his father called his name.

"Morgan." The future/past boy in question turned to see Gangrel smiling broadly at him.

"If you do happen to meet me when you head back," he continued, "make sure you teach him how great it is to have you as a son. Even if you have to whack him over the head to do it."

That made the boy smile before he took off running towards the tall building. The real Morgan didn't hesitate to chase after his other self in his eagerness, but both of the Gangrels stayed where they were, waiting for the threat to arrive.

Future-Gangrel toyed with the chain of his pendant before he raised his arm and threw it as far as he could away from himself. He then took his sword out of his belt and seated himself on the ground casually, as if this were no big deal at all. As if he hadn't quite literally thrown his life away.

An eruption of dark energy rent the air no far from where the man sat, cold, evil magic rippling outward as a familiar hooded figure came into existence.

"I must say, that was a rather underwhelming entrance," the Mad King commented, not even deigning to look at the sudden arrival. "You're losing your touch, Grima."

"Where's the boy?" the Fell Dragon demanded, his gleaming bloody eyes sweeping over the field.

"Oh, it's always about Morgan nowadays," Gangrel drawled, getting to his feet. "Why don't _we_ have a chat for once. It's been _ever_ so long, old friend."

Grima raised an eyebrow, the incredulous expression looking very out of place on Nisha's features. Then his face morphed into a mocking smile.

"Well then, my _beloved_ king," he purred in his twisted, double voice, "we shall talk. How would you prefer to go out? Beaten to a bloody, begging pulp or extinguished like a troublesome candle flame?"

"Oh, I always imagined that it would be in glorious victory that would cost me my life," the memory-trickster bantered. "But you know, I'm not picky; I suppose I always knew my wife would be the death of me."

This got a reaction out of Grima: he scowled, the purple energy around him flickering ominously.

"Nisha is dead," he snarled in his demonic tones.

"Oh, we both know that's a lie," Gangrel remarked casually, scrubbing a spot off his Levin sword with his thumb. "Why else would you have spared me and the boy for so long? It's obvious that _you_ , the almighty Fell Dragon, want nothing more than to end us. But _she_ won't let you, will she?"

A sharp, piercing noise cut through the air as the Fell Dragon's obvious rage grew.

"She abandoned you, don't you remember? She came to _me_ and I freed her from the hurt."

"She though she could destroy you and was proven wrong," the Mad King corrected. "But I saw her in you when you razed Plegia: you were so painfully slow to destroy the palace and I heard you scream when she broke through long enough to tell me to take Morgan and run. You're not as omnipotent as you'd like to believe."

"Silence!" Grima screamed, his voice barely human. A sharp gesture and the real Gangrel swore he could feel a force whipping through the air before it lifted the memory-image into the air, immobilized. The sword in the trickster's grasp was surrounded by a purple and black energy and the sharp tip lifted until it rested against the former king's jugular vein.

"I will do it," the Fell Dragon promised.

"I have no doubt about that," Future-Gangrel smirked, his ruby eyes daring Grima to finish him. "But I'll be dead before midnight anyway, so what are you waiting for? Afraid Nisha will escape your bonds and let me slip out from between your teeth once again?"

"No. I was merely savoring the moment when I'll get to see the light finally leave your eyes."

Grima smirked and a single droplet of crimson appeared on the Mad King's throat as the sword dug into the fragile flesh.

"Go ahead and savor it," the red-haired man taunted, his grin widening. "Seriously, take your time. After all, it won't be long before Morgan gets through the portal and into the past."

Grima's scarlet eyes widened and flickered to the tower in what could only be horror. The Levin sword clattered to the ground as the Fell Dragon desperately began to gather more dark purple energy around his stolen body and fired it at the tall tower. But before it hit the building, a flash of bluish light shone out of the windows in the upper rooms and Grima screamed in rage. The Mad King began to laugh as he saw his enemy's failure.

And then, in a motion so fast it was hard to follow, Grima seized the fallen Levin sword and drove it through the laughing man's stomach.

He paused in his humor as he felt the blade enter his body, but quickly resumed the chuckling as a trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth. He was roughly dropped and the crooked sword removed as the Fell Dragon planted his boot on the dying trickster's chest. He just looked up at his opponent and grinned widely.

"I see you," he whispered. "Don't keep me waiting too long, Nisha."

His laughter rose once again before it was suddenly silenced.

* * *

Morgan shifted uncomfortably in his seat under his father's harsh glare. They had both been out of the memoryscape for over an hour now (Henry had very abruptly been pushed down the stairs when Gangrel had passed him on the way to his son's room) and it had been a very uncomfortable hour indeed. The trickster was simply waiting for the grandmaster to speak, but Morgan refused to start out of worry and more than a little fear of his Gangrel's reactions. Finally, the young man sighed and began playing with the golden border of his cloak sleeve.

"Alright, I'll admit it," he mumbled. "I wanted to see if Henry really could bring my memories back. I was hoping...if I remembered you in my past, then maybe I'd know how to help you now."

"You feel responsible for me."

It was not a question and the Mad King's eyes bored into the boy across from him, appraising. Then the trickster sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Morgan, you don't need me," he stated flatly. "You're effort is commendable, but ultimately pointless."

"Father—"

"Think about it, Morgan: if I died tomorrow, you'd mourn me, but you'd move on just fine. At this point, I'm only blocking you from what you really want to do with your life."

"But...I don't want to lose you," Morgan whispered, his eyes glistening. "Not...not after losing Mother."

"You have others that will look after you for me," the Mad King replied. "Lucina will take good care of you—she's sensible. But unless you act, she'll move on to somebody else and you'll lose your chance. I know all about waiting too long, kid; trust me."

The young grandmaster swallowed before he inhaled deeply, holding the breath before he let it go. Some of the tension seemed to have left his shoulders as he rose to his feet. He stepped forward and smiled weakly before he ensnared the older man in a sudden embrace.

"First Emmeryn, now you," Gangrel grumbled softly. He was answered with a faint chuckle that sounded as though it were on the edge of tears.

* * *

Gangrel looked up at the moon with a scowl on his face. The balcony was bathed in white light and the strange brightness in the middle of the night irritated him. Night was meant to be dark, to be cold. But instead it was glowing, glowing silver where the blackness could not touch.

"You were never going to let her come back, were you Naga?" he asked the heavens, leaning on the marble railing. He looked down below into a pool of shadows the castle walls made in the far-below courtyard, a bitter smirk curling at his lips. "And neither were you, Grima you old dastard. Do you know what the difference between you and the Divine Dragon? She's a beautiful lie—giving hope and light to those that believe in her almighty power and raining destruction upon those who don't agree. You're a painful truth—you bring destruction equally upon all; you don't hide that death is all that awaits us mortals in the end; you don't pretend that we aren't just ants waiting to be crushed by an almighty boot."

The Mad King rubbed the back of his neck as he looked up to the moon again.

"You gods, playing with the lives of mortals. Making us your entertainment," he growled. "Haven't I paid my dues? Have I not played your game long enough to deserve rest? Or is death the only way to free myself from your clutches?"

" _Gangrel..."_

The trickster froze. It couldn't be...he slowly turned to see who was there and saw something shimmering faintly behind him. A human figure. A woman's figure, wrapped in a long cloak that swayed as if in a breeze, her ebony locks flowing as well.

" _Gangrel_ ," she repeated, smiling.

"Nisha," he replied softly.

 _Now I've really gone and done it; I'm seeing things,_ he thought bitterly.

The apparition stepped towards him, her fingers ghosting over his cheek as he looked down at her. He couldn't feel her touch, though his eyes told him very clearly that she was there. His heart clenched painfully as he looked into her beautiful dark eyes and saw stars reflected in her irises.

" _Why are you so sad?_ " she asked, her lovely face falling into a concerned expression.

"Because you're gone. Because I died the day I lost you."

" _You didn't lose me,_ " she insisted gently, her gaze earnest.

"Then why did you leave me?" he asked softly. Nisha's expression became sorrowful and she reached out her hand as if to give a comforting touch, but she once again passed through his flesh without him feeling anything. She was indistinct as a shadow, as illusionary as the night for which she was named. She was just a memory.

" _I promised I would come back_ ," the tactician whispered. " _Do you not believe that I would keep my oath?_ "

"If you could, you would have returned already."

" _But I am free of the Fell Dragon's chains_ —"

Gangrel turned his back on her, refusing to hear any more; hallucinating would not change the truth that his beloved was dead. The trickster stared long and hard at the dark courtyard below him, closing his ears to the gentle voice that insisted she was going to come back. But despite his efforts, he still heard the image's departing words.

" _For you._ "

The Mad King twisted back around and saw that the apparition had gone.

...he was alone.

* * *

 _A/N: I was very sad for a long time during the writing of this, so that's why it's a kinda depressing. Sorry for any more dead or dying feels. :/_


	10. Light

_A/N: Alright, so I have an important question to ask you (my readers) at the end of this chapter. IT IS VERY IMPORTANT! As in will-decide-the-fate-of-this-fic kind of important. But that's at the end, so enjoy the chapter!_

 _Before I forget, two snaps and a clap for my reviewers! Brenna snow! (Studying Aergia's theorem, are we? ;) ) Lady Weavile 461!(Awwe! Thankie!) Emozenith! (Henry's magic is only limited by the power of his imagination...and the energy of his life force. ^w^) And Pandora's gift! (Have some aloe for those burning feels!)_

* * *

Chrom had lasted far longer than Gangrel had been expecting, but he didn't quite make it to the point that everyone else had been hoping for either: two weeks before the Plegian representative was scheduled to arrive, the Exalt had packed a week's worth of supplies and taken Lissa with him out into the wilderness. Frederick and his wife Sumia both immediately followed afterwards to ensure the safety of their monarch and his sister. This had, quite frankly, thrown the castle into complete disarray as the Ylissean Council were startled to find that their leader had, in essence, vanished into thin air.

Ever her father's daughter, Lucina stepped up and managed to stop the panic from spreading outside of the palace walls though she was unwilling to fully take responsibility—she was certain that Chrom would only be gone for a short while. Her words seemed to soothe the Shepherds and the Council alike and the fear had vanished into a patience as they waited for the Exalt to return.

It was four days after the disappearance that any of this managed to make an impact on Gangrel: he refused to be bothered by the whole situation at all, remaining within his rooms most of the time and not leaving even to get food. He was standing in the courtyard and idly throwing his daggers at a knot in one of the trees when the sound of sudden, rushed footsteps reached his ears and drew his attention away from the impromptu target practice.

It was Sumia, sprinting out the castle doors as fast as her feet could carry her.

"Gangrel!" she called. "Gangrel, there you-ah!"

The Pegasus knight tripped over her own boots and fell flat on the ground with a loud crash. She moaned as she struggled to her feet and stumbled forward.

"Ah, ow. Dangit, I shouldn't have been running."

"Now what was so important that you'd been falling all over yourself to get to me?" the Mad King drawled in a sort of half-attempt at humor. He felt a faint flicker of pride when he saw her go red at the comment.

"Chrom sent me to come get you," she said authoritatively, like a proper soldier delivering a message despite how flushed she was. "He said it was urgent and he needs you there right away."

"And where is this 'there' that his Exaltedness wants me?" the trickster inquired dryly raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry about that Gangrel, but I was told to do nothing except deliver the message and bring you with me."

With that short, cheerful statement, the slim woman seized him by the arm and dragged him away from where he stood with surprising strength. Surprised, he stumbled after her before he dug his heels in and refused to move.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he insisted.

"Sorry, Chrom's orders."

Sumia then punched him square in the jaw, enough to make the Mad King's head snap to the side and stun him so that she could begin to pull him away to devil-knows-where.

 _When did she learn to throw a punch like that?_ Gangrel wondered, a tad dazedly.

He began to resist again when he realized that she was taking him to the stables—or more accurately, to the pegasus that was saddled just outside the stables. It took him only half a moment to understand what she was trying to do.

"I am not getting on that beast!" he insisted.

"It's the fastest way!" Sumia argued. "On foot, it would take at least a day, if not longer, and Chrom said—"

"I don't care what Chrom said! I'm not getting on the pegasus and that's that!"

"Do you need me to slap you again?"

The Mad King paused to glance at her incredulously.

"Normally you slap someone with an open palm," he told her pointedly. "But either way, I am _not._ Doing. This."

The young woman bit her lip uncertainly, her hand still clenched tightly around his arm. She then began trying (rather sadly in Gangrel's opinion) to drag him towards her mount without success.

"What are you doing?"

The new voiced caused them both to turn and see who had come upon their strange little predicament. It was Sully, dressed for combat practice, her daughter just behind her.

"Chrom told me to come and get him, but he won't mount the pegasus!" Sumia cried, resuming her struggle. The red-clad paladin's eyebrows shot up at that and a smile crossed her face. The vague sense of being doomed began to slide into the trickster's stomach when he saw that grin.

He didn't even try praying to the gods for mercy: he knew they wouldn't listen.

* * *

Gangrel swore he was going to die. Or at the very least be sick. With Sully and Kjelle's help, Sumia had managed to get him secured to the saddle of her pegasus and take off. Of course, she had to deal with a vehemently swearing passenger for the first ten minutes before the height got to him and he had fallen silent.

The Pegasus knight was beginning to regret giving the Mad king permission to hold onto her waist to help him feel safer: he was squeezing the breath out of her and she was getting light-headed.

"Can you maybe not cling so tightly?" she wheezed. "I think I might pass out."

The Mad King didn't seem to register what she said at first, but his hold loosened enough to free up her lungs and keep them from danger. His eyes were shut tightly as he waited for the horrid flight to be over and to prevent himself from feeling any worse from accidentally looking down.

Hours later—though it could have been an eon and it would have felt the same to the terrified trickster—Sumia navigated her mount in for a landing. Gangrel eagerly released his grip around her middle and jumped off the pegasus. His legs failed to support him and he landed hard on his hands and knees, panting and sweaty, fighting back the urge to vomit.

"Sorry about the rough ride," Sumia apologized. "It's just that—"

"Chrom's orders, I know," Gangrel growled, trying to slow his breathing and pulse. "Doesn't make it any better, so why don't you just be quiet and leave me for a minute?"

He didn't wait for her answer as he flopped flat onto the ground, reveling in the feel of solid earth. For a few minutes, he was allowed to be at peace and calm himself after the nerve-wracking adventure that had just occurred. But it was not to last for very long: a shadow crossed his face and the trickster opened his scarlet eyes to see Chrom standing over him, proffering a hand to help him rise. The Mad King considered the gesture for a minute before he took the outstretched hand and pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm glad Sumia was able to get you here quickly," the Exalt said, clapping Gangrel on the shoulder like they were old friends.

"Next time, just send her with a message and not a retrieval order," he replied dryly. "I didn't appreciate the sudden lift."

The bluenette laughed and that's when the trickster knew that something had happened: Chrom hadn't laughed aloud for weeks and now that he got a closer look at the man, it seemed he had gotten a good night's sleep for the first time in a while as well.

"Well, you have my apologies and my sympathy," Chrom shrugged, still grinning. The expression faded a moment later into something more serious as he finally dropped his hand from the Mad King's shoulder.

"I certainly hope what you've brought me for is worth it," Gangrel remarked, folding his arms. "Because I am not going through that trauma again."

"Trust me, you won't be upset that I've summoned you. There's something you need to see."

The Exalt gestured for the plegian to follow him and then strode away. For the first time, Gangrel really got a good look at his surroundings: they were in an open field with a few scattered flowers popping up among the tall blades of grass. Nothing really special.

Chrom stopped when a tent came into view, set up under a lone tree in a small valley.

"You'd probably want to go on alone after this point."

Gangrel gave the other man a suspicious sideways glance, but the bluenette simply waved him on with a faint smile. The Mad King sighed heavily before he made his way down the hill towards the tent. He wasn't sure what to make of this whole situation: he'd been given no explanation as to what was happening nor why it was so important for him to be here. Yet here he was. What was the princeling up to?

He reached the tent and hesitated before he took the door flap in hand and pulled it open, stepping inside.

He froze. The tent flap slipped free of his numb fingers, closing him off from the outside world. Closing _them_ off.

 _It has to be another hallucination,_ he tried to tell himself. _I was right: Chrom's gone mad too._

Seated at the familiar wooden desk, surrounded by books and papers, was Nisha, smiling as she worked. The scene was so...so _normal_. Her black hair slung casually over her shoulder, her cloak wrapped around her frame...it was just how it had always been. So right. And yet so very, very wrong.

The tactician sighed and stretched, getting to her feet. She turned on her heel as if to go outside but froze when her dark eyes landed on the man standing before the doorway.

"Gangrel?" she breathed, stepping forward. She came closer and closer to him, reaching out her hand as if to touch his face, but she hesitated before she could make contact. Her lovely brown eyes were filled with tears.

"Gangrel," Nisha whispered again. "Oh, I've missed you so much."

Gangrel could have sworn his heart cracked at hearing her voice. It was so _real_ ; so lifelike. But it had to be an illusion. It couldn't really be...

The dark-haired woman stared up at him, her gaze searching before her face softened into a gentle smile.

"I really am here," she tried to reassure him. "I _am_."

The trickster closed his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly, refusing to hear her. Every word further opened the cracks in his chest and he wasn't sure how long he would last before he shattered.

Something warm touched his cheek before something else gently pressed against his mouth, something sweet.

"I'm home," he felt Nisha whisper against his lips. "I'm home."

She kissed him again, more earnestly, more insistent. Gangrel was motionless as her warm mouth touched his again and again. Then he felt more than heard the next words she murmured on his skin.

"I love you."

A moan tore through the Mad King's throat and his hands seemed to move of their own accord as he cupped her face and began to kiss her back. Heat seared inside his chest as the breaks in his heart sealed. And then, to Gangrel's immense surprise, the tactician's fingers wove into his hair, pulling him closer with a passion she had never shown before. Taken off guard, the trickster stumbled and before he realized it, was falling backwards. The harsh landing jarred them apart, driving the air from Gangrel's lungs and leaving him stunned and breathless as his lover landed on top of his chest. Nisha laughed, her hair slipping loose of her ponytail to hang in her face. The length of cord binding her black locks fell away as the Mad King ran his fingers through the dark, silky lengths, staring at her hungrily, hardly able to believe what had just occurred.

"You're back," he repeated over and over, like a prayer. "You're finally back. I didn't think it was possible..."

"I promised I would. Do you not think that I can keep my promises?"

Gangrel swiftly kissed her again, pulling her down to meet him. He then paused, pulling back when he remembered that Nisha was not used to him being so rough. She caught him off guard again when she dragged him back up to continue the kiss with an unusual force to her movements.

"Now what brought on this eagerness all of a sudden?" he asked her, his voice a little weak from surprise and pleasure.

"I missed you," she replied softly, sounding close to tears. "There were times...times when I thought that I wouldn't make it...where I was unable to keep fighting...but the thought of you gave me strength; the thought that I might never get to see you again hurt worse than anything the Fell Dragon could do to me."

"So the apparition...that was really you."

"Right after I finally managed to break free of the chain Grima had put on me. I tried to tell you, but you seemed so lost...that's when I knew I had to really get back."

The trickster gently traced his thumb across her cheek, stopping a tear that had slipped free of her damp lashes. Nisha leaned into his touch and Gangrel smiled contentedly, his other hand gently toying with her hair.

"I love you tactician."

"I know you do. And I love you too, my Mad King of Plegia."

There was a pause as they just took one another in, smiling without a single care in the world.

"So how long do you think the Princeling will let us be before he needs to rush you back to his palace and set the whole country celebrating again?" Gangrel dared to ask as the silence stretched long.

"No idea. But you had better get up here and kiss me again before he does."

"Yes ma'am."

And that's precisely what he did.

* * *

 _A/N: So I hope I gave you nice fuzzy feels! So here's the important part:_

 _I do have a plotline that could continue this fic, but I am unsure if this story has outlived its welcome in the fandom, seeing as Awakening is now a few years old. I also don't want this to become a far-too-long series that just never ends (that's incredibly frustrating to both read and write, I know). So I am leaving it up to the audience. THERE IS A SURVEY ON MY PROFILE. Please pick whichever option you desire for the destiny of this story. I will be back at the end of November to see the results and everything will just move on from there. Thank you for your feedback!_

 _~Dem0nLight_


	11. Ghosts

_A/N: As promised, behold my lovely, kind, patient readers who have put up with the wait so well! Kisses!_

 _For anyone who missed the announcement, Gangrel and Nisha's story is not over yet...they have a new quest to set out on!_

 _Gracias a mis críticos: potatoman098 (I'm glad you enjoyed. :) ), Lady Weavile 461 (3 ), Brenna Snow (Oh trust me, the inspiration is there...I've been suppressing this plotline for over a year), sugouxxx ("Sumia, use doubleslap!" XD And hey, I know you just wanted an epilogue, so I've tried to make the opening part to be sort of epilogue-ish for you), Emozenith (oh, where do I begin? You are one epic human being!), Shimi (The conversion is permanent...you may never go back...jk! Glad to know I gave someone feels!), and Pandora's gift (Worry not, mein freund!)._

* * *

They reached Ylisstol that same night. The celebrations that occurred within the castle's walls once the Shepherds learned of what had happened lasted for an week with the those members within Ylisse's borders travelling to the capital to come join the party. The Shepherds that lived in other nations received word via letter or magic and send word back that they were holding their own feasts to honor their returned tactician. Many of the women—and a few of the men—had shed tears of joy upon hearing the news. Morgan wept openly when he embraced his mother before dragging her to Lucina to see the ring that adorned the young woman's finger. Even members of th stiff and no-nonsense Ylissean Council joined in the festivities!

In the midst of their joy, there was one man who refused to leave Nisha's side. Gangrel stayed right next to his lover throughout the entire affair, holding her hand and sitting beside her. He didn't talk much, but even in his silence he looked far more alive than he had for months, actually smiling when Shepherds came to congratulate him on his fiancee's return. It almost seemed as though a fragment of his old, livelier self had returned and for the first time, the Ylisseans were glad for it.

* * *

Of course, nobody had honestly been expecting for the Mad King to return to his usual sassy, sarcastic self right away, but his newest shift in routine had taken the entire castle by surprise: Gangrel never let Nisha out of his sight anymore except for the moments when she was bathing or changing clothes and even then he was close by. The clinging had first become apparent when the Shepherds observed him following their tactician absolutely, refusing to let go of her hand or be further than five paces from her at any given moment. Whenever Nisha sat anywhere that wasn't a chair, the trickster would be right behind her, positioning her in his lap, holding her tight about the waist. This had initially been something of a shock for anyone who saw him do this, but the Ylisseans had decided to just accept it without much complaint—he was bound to want to be by her side at every moment considering how long they had been apart, after all.

It had become a problem when it was discovered that the Mad King would wait until the castle was asleep at night and creep into the tactician's room and fall asleep on the floor by her bed rather than in his own quarters. Chrom pulled Gangrel aside after the first incident and tried to tell him off, but the next morning, the trickster was found again at Nisha's bedside, fast asleep.

In truth, they all knew why Gangrel was acting this way: he was afraid Nisha was going to disappear again. Every night when they parted ways, his mind couldn't let go of the thought that he might wake up in the morning and she would be gone. It was an illogical fear and the redheaded Plegian knew it, but that knowledge did nothing to soothe his worries. Finally, Nisha put her foot down.

"This needs to stop," she told him when she woke up to find him in her room again. "It's not healthy for you to be so obsessed with me."

Gangrel had given her a look, one so full of worry and genuine terror that her sternness softened and she took his hand into her own.

"I promise you, I'm not going to run away any time soon."

"You promised that you wouldn't sacrifice yourself to kill Grima either," the Mad King reminded her.

"I never actually said those words to you. But I _did_ promise to come back, and here I am."

She kissed him gently and let out a faint gasp when Gangrel crushed her against him in an embrace. After a moment, the tactician reciprocated the gesture and heard him whisper into her ear.

"Never do that to me again, alright? Else I won't give you so long to come back."

"I won't; I swear."

* * *

It had been almost two weeks since Nisha's return to the world of the living, and things had returned to normality within the castle walls. Gangrel still spent most nights on Nisha's floor, but at least he was polite enough to ask permission when his paranoia refused to leave him alone.

On this particular morning, the tactician had been unusually stressed as she went about her usual routines. She was currently taking out her ponytail for the fifth time, upset over some tiny imperfection in the way she had pulled it up. It was at this point that Gangrel decided to intervene.

"Alright," he sighed, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong."

"Oh don't give me that. You're all but pulling your hair out you've messed with it so much. I can tell you're stressed."

"And that's the problem," Nisha muttered, carefully tying her hair back and _finally_ just letting it be. "I really shouldn't be worried; it's just the diplomatic representative from Plegia. I probably won't say or do anything. But the fact I am so nerve-wracked is only making my emotions worse!"

The Mad King raised an eyebrow before he stepped forward and captured his flustered lover in his embrace, kissing her temple.

"Just relax," he purred into her ear. "You'll be perfect as always. In all honesty, you could deal with diplomats in your sleep."

Dropping his hands to her hips, Gangrel turned her around a kissed her lightly on the lips, smirking when he felt her tightly wound body loosen in his arms.

"It's hard to believe you can't stand to be away from me for fear I'll vanish when you get like this," the dark-haired woman mumbled.

"That's because it's daytime," he replied smoothly. "It's only when darkness falls that I run to your chambers."

Nisha laughed before she kissed her fiance and wrapped her arms about his neck. It was while they stood together like this that Olivia knocked and reminded the tactician that she had ten minutes before she was due to the council chambers to greet their guest. Gangrel stepped back, lacing his fingers with hers.

"Shall we, my Lady?"

* * *

In the trickster's personal opinion, the Ylisseans were a tad overly theatrical with their ruling system. True, he could be accused of the same, but Gangrel liked to think that he reserved all the pomp and ceremony only for the most deserving of occasions. In Plegia, a diplomat would meet with the king and potentially a few of his advisers, but it would be a small affair, most likely over the king's writing desk, and was dealt with as soon as possible. Here in Ylisse, the diplomat was invited to dine with the royal family the night of their arrival and have their audience the next morning with the entire council in attendance.

And they had called him dramatic. Oh well, the pot calling the kettle black and all that.

The Ylissean council were seated comfortably around their large table, mingling casually through every once in a while one would shoot a glance at the redheaded Plegian standing beside Nisha. It was no secret that the council was wary of him—feared him even—but they did not openly contest Chrom's decision to allow Gangrel to be present at meetings where the tactician was required. As far as they were concerned, he was a waste of room space, one they tried to ignore for the most part.

The doors to the chamber opened and Frederick entered, a woman following close behind him.

"Lady Rema, diplomat of Plegia, my Lords and Ladies," the great knight intoned before moving to stand at his Exalt's side.

"Welcome," Chrom greeted her warmly. The diplomat bowed deeply before she straightened and everyone managed to catch a fair glimpse of her.

She was a lovely woman with richly tanned skin and short brunette hair. Her eyes were like liquid gold and caught the light whenever she made eye contact. There were also dark shadows under those eyes, recently formed.

"It is an honor, your Excellence," she replied softly. "With how Plegia has treated your country in these recent years, I do not deserve such kindness."

"Nonsense," the bluenette smiled. "The Plegian people have done much for Ylisse and I would see that all hostility between our lands cease. Now, what brings you before us, Lady Rema?"

"My homeland is in dire need, my Lord," the noblewoman stated wearily. "I have come to you for aid. The people are starving and the government is in shambles after Validar's death. The noble houses quarrel as to what should be done and I knew not where else to turn."

The rest of her story was no better: a high-ranking Grimleal priest had taken the throne as a temporary steward and was unfairly directing the rebuilding efforts and most of the resources to be within the cult's jurisdiction while the Lords of Plegia withheld great stores of food and wealth from the common people. Violence was increasing as citizens turned to crime to survive and farms were failing due to plunder. Entire cities that had been destroyed in Grima's rise to power were left in ruins and international relations were at a new low, trade having stopped entirely. The entire country was dying it seemed. Lady Rema was nearly in tears by the end of it, clearly worn out mentally and emotionally.

"I have done all I can to help the people, but my power is limited, as is the resources I can share. It is only at this hour of direst need have I been able to surrender my pride and come to you, sire."

The desperate woman looked around her as she finished her plea, at all the powerful men and women seated at the table, but when her eyes landed on the Mad King standing behind his wife's chair, her skin went an alabaster white. It were as if she had seen a ghost. Her expression did not escape the Exalt, who leaned forward in interest. A few of the council attempted to ask some questions, but Lady Rema seemed stuck staring at the red-haired man across , unresponsive to all others

"I would speak to this woman in private," Chrom announced after an uncertain silence had persisted far too long. "Frederick, Nisha, if you would stay here please."

The council members vacated the room in record time and Frederick guided the shaken Plegian woman into a seat near the Ylissean ruler. Rema's golden eyes did not leave Gangrel's still form as she moved, not for one second.

"Gangrel, have a seat as well."

The trickster obeyed Chrom's request, studying the golden-eyed diplomat as he steepled his fingers. Nisha's dark gaze flickered between the two of them, reading the situation until the other woman spoke.

"My Lord...is that really...you're alive?"

"Indeed, last time I checked anyway," Gangrel replied coolly, his scarlet eyes still unwavering from her.

"How is this possible?"

"Lady Rema," Chrom interjected, drawing her attention away from the former king though he did not reciprocate the shift. "Your cause is just and your story seems sound, but I would prefer to confirm that what you say makes sense to our...specialist on Plegian politics."

"Is that what you're calling me now, princeling?" the Mad King asked dryly. "Bit of a mouthful, isn't it?"

"Gangrel," Nisha chastised gently. "Just do as Chrom asks."

"Well he hasn't asked me anything yet," the trickster smirked. "Once he does, then I'll answer."

The tactician rolled her eyes at his antics and Chrom sighed.

"Well then would you please tell me what you think of Lady Rema's account? Is it plausible that these events have actually occurred?"

"Oh most definitely," was the immediate response. "Fits the Grimleal pattern perfectly: power vacuum opens up where they had influence and one of their finest weasels his way inside the system. As for the noble houses being a bunch of dastards, well that's nothing new-the crisis just brought it to the forefront. The rest is the same reaction that any population would do. So yes, princeling, I do believe her story. In any case, why would she lie to us?"

"So what do you think can be done to help?" Nisha pressed. "Anna has a fair number of sisters who could help her get more resources to the people at better prices."

"Not enough," Gangrel muttered. "You'd need a miracle worker."

"You could return, my Lord."

The words were soft, but everyone present heard them and turned their attention to the brunette diplomat. She was looking at the Mad King earnestly, some of the color returned to her face. Gangrel stared her straight in the eye and gave her a one-word response:

"No."

"But why not?" Lady Rema pressed. "You navigated Plegia through a situation just as bad during your reign."

"Because I am not 'your lord'—not anymore. I have commitments now that hold precedence and not to mention the people despise me."

"But if you were to rally them—as you did during the Purges—you would give us enough leverage against the nobles and Grimleal to even the scales!"

"Rema—" Gangrel's tone was warning, but the younger Plegian was only gathering momentum.

"So what if you choose not to return to the throne? You would have the influence to guide Plegia towards a fitting candidate, someone who would rule justly and rebuild—"

"The answer is no Rema and it is not going to change!"

Gangrel shout echoed in the sudden stunned silence, tension rising as the former king suddenly found himself standing, hands braced on the table. The noblewoman's face fell, but she nodded sadly in silent acknowledgement of his decisions, tears collecting in her eyes. Chrom slowly rose to his feet, announcing that he would call back the council and continue to discuss their options, but the trickster simply turned on his heel and walked out without another word. Nisha watched him go before she rubbed her temples and smiled lightly at Rema.

"Don't worry," she said soothingly. "I'll talk to him."

"I doubt you'll be able to convince him," the diplomat muttered. "When the Mad King Gangrel makes up his mind, he doesn't change it."

"You haven't seen him very recently, have you?"

* * *

"Why _won't_ you go back and help?" the dark-haired woman pressed Gangrel later that night in her chambers. "Other than the reasons you mentioned earlier."

"That's just it tactician: those are the only reasons I have, and they're non-negotiable," the Plegian stated stubbornly. "I have you here and Morgan and I'm not leaving you behind. Not even all of Plegia's former glory would change that for me."

"No, there's something more here; something you weren't willing to say I'm front of Chrom and Lady Rema." Nisha began to pace as Gangrel sat down on her bed, absolutely exhausted. "I know you love your country. And yet you refuse to reenter your homeland. Forget going back and helping, you just don't want to go home. That just doesn't make any sense."

"You're attempting to solve me like one of your puzzles," her lover pointed out bluntly. She paused in her pacing a flushed a little before she sat next to him, unnecessarily smoothing out the blankets.

"Gangrel...you know you can tell me anything, right?"

Her question was greeted with silence as the trickster studied his hands folded in his lap. Nisha waited, watching him, but he made no move to answer so she blew at a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes before she stood up and went to the mirror to take down her ponytail.

"I'm afraid."

The tactician froze when she heard Gangrel speak softly, slowly dropping her arms and letting her black locks tumble onto her shoulders as she studied the trickster in the reflective glass.

"You know what I became when I had the throne. The people won't just forgive and forget—and if they find out about you, then you'll become a target of their rage too. But it's not just my... _the_ people: what if going back, being surrounded by old influences, I return to my madness? What if I turn back into a monster?"

Nisha felt a tug at her heart as he bared a fraction of his soul to her: it was rare for the Mad King to be so honest about something so intimately personal. As unreasonable and unfounded as those fears might be from her perspective, they were real to him and so bothered him greatly—to the point of sleeplessness if she was reading the situation correctly.

The dark-haired woman left the mirror and knelt before Gangrel, taking his hands in hers as she gazed earnestly into his eyes.

"Gangrel, I love you," she informed him, "and I'm pleased beyond belief at how much I mean to you. But your people are suffering when you could relieve them of that pain. I won't force you into a decision, but know this: you lost yourself for a while, but I have no fears that you will succumb to any of your old vices. You are strong—stronger than you think you are by far. And I trust you to do what you feel to be right. I'll be beside you no matter what you choose."

She finished her statement by kissing his cheek and was a little startled when the trickster slipped one hand free of her grasp to caress the side of her face tenderly. His ruby eyes were unreadable but a weary smile crossed Gangrel's features as he held her there.

"Nisha," he breathed. "I love you more than words can say, I hope you realize that."

The tactician smiled.

* * *

The next morning, Gangrel sat alone in his quarters, clearly lost in deep thought. All at once, the rooms suddenly felt far too large and he began to pace, but the movement was irritating him, distracting him from the raging battle inside of his own mind. The former monarch released a huff of frustration before he stalked over to the side table under a window where a servant had brought a pitcher of water, a basin and a towel.

The cool liquid felt good against his skin, like he had calmed the flames of his mind by letting the water touch his face. Gangrel stopped thinking and lost himself for a moment in the feeling of moisture beading and rolling down his face like rain or tears.

It was in this calmer state that the Mad King looked up at the window and saw his own reflection in it. For one second, he didn't see a coward looking back at him. For just a moment, he saw himself as what he really was: a man lost and unsure of his place in the world. He didn't belong in Ylisse; it wasn't his home. And deep down, Gangrel knew what he had to do—and what could come of it. Yet he didn't feel conflicted or worried. No, the only thing he felt was a deep conviction that his course was right and he had to see it out to the end.

Gods above, he truly was mad. And for some reason, it didn't seem entirely like a bad thing.

* * *

 _A/N: *dramatic music cue*_

 _I should probably say something really cheesy right now, but honestly, I'm just glad this is out of my head. :) Until next time! R &R!_


	12. Beginning

_A/N: So I had insomnia...and now I'm delirious. Like David-After-Dentists delirious. *High-pitched whine* WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME?!_

 _So to all my reviewers, have a cookie! Jarjaxle! (It was his alternate future that actually drove me to marry MKG in the first place.) Sugouxxx! (Glad to see you're enjoying it!) Emozenith! (Ahhh, the psychic returns!) Brenna Snow! (Was it everything you dreamed, my friend?) And Zayvor! (And here it is!)_

* * *

A few days later, Nisha was helping Rema saddle her horse and get all her supplies onto the beast she would be using to carry her luggage. The women spoke fondly to one another, having come on very good terms over the past time they had gotten to spend with one another during the brunette's brief visit. The Fellblood woman had offered to go to Plegia as an adviser to the country, but Chrom had warned that not only had she been responsible for the deaths of many Plegian soldiers, but had also killed the god a large portion of the population worshiped. Going alone was out of the question.

"I wish you safe travels, Lady Rema," Nisha said with a smile as the noblewoman mounted her steed.

Rema smiled in return and looked as though she were about to give an equally warm farewell when the diplomat suddenly sat very straight.

"My Lord," she addressed someone over the tactician's head. Nisha turned to see her fiance standing in the open stable doors, a tan travelling cloak around his shoulders and a few bags slung across his chest.

"What are you wearing?" the dark-haired woman inquired.

"Change of plans, tactician," the Mad King replied casually, striding over. "We'll be joining Rema on the return trip to Plegia."

Both women glanced at one another in shock and Nisha strode over to her lover and looked him over. He certainly did seem like he was going to be leaving Ylisse: his clothes were plain and clearly meant for one to get sweaty in without fear of ruining the fabric and there seemed to be plenty of extra supplies for him to be on the road for a few weeks.

"If _we_ are going, then wouldn't I need some things as well?" the tactician asked, putting her hands on her hips and shifting her weight to one leg.

"Tharja is gathering your belongings now and the princeling is organizing for more supplies and an extra tent or two."

"But my Lord, I though you said you weren't coming back home," Rema protested, dismounting from her horse with a frown settled on her features. "Why change your mind now? You've never changed your mind once you've set it— _ever_."

"Well what can I say? I'm a _changed_ man," the trickster quipped before he moved to the stalls to choose a horse for himself. The two women made eye contact, Nisha shrugging helplessly at the whole situation before she followed Gangrel.

"I thought Chrom told me not to go," she remarked.

"He said not to go _alone_ ," her lover shot back. "When I told him of my intentions to go to Plegia, he gave me permission to bring you along."

"Gangrel..." Nisha bit her lip. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

The former king inhaled deeply before releasing the breath slowly, He turned to the young tactician, cupping her face with his free hand.

"No," he whispered. "I'm not sure at all. But if I do nothing, then I'll be certain that I let innocent people suffer and die when I could have saved them. And I wouldn't be able to live with myself if that happened."

* * *

That was how they found themselves setting out on their journey: the Plegian diplomat, the former ruler of Plegia and the tactician of Ylisse riding across the open country with no company other than the horses and the other groups they passed on the road. It began as a rather silent trip, but soon Rema opened up to Nisha and they spoke to one another on whatever subject crossed their minds all throughout the day and for a long time into the night. Gangrel didn't often join in with the discussions—unless he was correcting Nisha on some of her stories as to his role in them—aside from the ones where they planned different approaches to presenting the former king to the country.

"I still don't think I'm understanding how the Grimleal ascension works," the tactician was saying one afternoon as they stopped for a quick rest and allowed the horses to graze. "It's not seniority and it's not hereditary?"

"There aren't many systems in this world that share the Grimleal council's way of ruling," Rema sighed. "It doesn't help that a large amount of their decision-making is kept secret."

"From the general populace at least," Gangrel added. "The king is privy to a few of their meetings and their organization."

"Then how would _you_ describe it?"

"It's like a cross between seniority, a dynasty and democracy—and for the record, they'll kill me if they find out I shared this information with a foreigner," he warned. "Some form of heresy apparently. Anyway, the lowest in the ranks are the devoted worshipers who serve a whole slew of regional hierophants and above the hierophants are the twelve priests. The only thing higher than the priests is the Dragon's Council made up of the six High Priests with their own special heriarchy, the highest of which is called the Fell Priest. Within the council, most decisions are made by vote, with the Fell Priest's vote having more weight in case of a tie. The Fell Priest is also responsible for appointing new High Priests when one of them passes away and he names an heir in the council to succeed him when he dies."

"So what role does the king play in this council?" Nisha pressed, leaning closer to her fiance with enraptured interest. The trickster smirked at how much passion she held in the subject of foreign politics.

"He's the lowest in the heirarchy—technically he's not really a member, just an honorary one. The only time when the king's presence is requested is when there's a crisis bad enough to need the Grimleal to support the country. With the Fell Priest on the throne now, Plegia is under total Grimleal control."

Lady Rema took a long drink from her waterskin, lying back and staring up at the sky.

"There hasn't been total Grimleal control for years," she sighed. "My father would tell me stories about those days...the non-believers suffered greatly for wanting to worship anything other than the Fell Dragon. It seems those days are upon us again."

There was silence before Nisha got up and moved to her appaloosa steed, re-tacking the gelding and mounting.

"According to the map, we have another half-day's travel before we reach the desert," she announced. "We'd best move quickly."

* * *

The landscape changed from valleys and meadows to dry, barren wastes where only a few scrubby trees and prickly bushes grew from the hard dry ground. The closer the trio got to the border, the quieter they all got, as if they were afraid the very earth under their horse's hooves would revolt at the Mad King coming so near to the place that had almost been his grave. At night, Gangrel would often jolt from his rest in a panic, haunted by the images of death he saw. As a result, he was often the first to turn in and the first out of his tent in the morning.

It was late one night—past midnight most certainly—and the Mad King was sitting before the last log of their campfire. He rested his chin in his hand, idly tapping his fingers on his jaw as he lost himself in thought.

His mind was not far from the wastes where they were camping, but it was immeasurably distant at the same time. Images of golden sands and great markets with easy pickings for a practiced thief flashed behind the trickster's scarlet eyes. For once, they were not pictures that belonged in a nightmare: they were memories, brief moments in his life that he had experienced for almost four years...before it had all gone up in enchanted flames.

There was the sound of rustling fabric and Gangrel snapped out of his trance, glancing up to see Lady Rema steeping out of her tent, wiping sleep from her eyes. The brunette started when she noticed the tall redhead.

"My Lord," she addressed him, the title compulsive. "I didn't realize you were awake at such a late hour."

"You are not the only one who spends too much time thinking far too early," Gangrel replied smoothly, his fist having clenched at being called somebody's "lord" once again. "I hear you shifting around on the other side of camp whenever I wake in the night. I would ask what's wrong, however I doubt you want _me_ to listen—I was never very good at it when I was on the throne."

"That's not true," the noblewoman protested, coming closer to the fire and sitting beside the Mad King. "There was a time—earlier in your reign—where you would do nothing _but_ listen to the council when we gathered until you were asked a direct question."

Rema fell silent, lowering her eyes. The trickster saw it and signed heavily.

"You don't have to be so respectful all the time; it's not like I'm gonna kill you for making eye contact. I'm no king—not anymore—and have no want for such things...nor deserve them."

Quiet filled the air between them, but it was not uncomfortable: neither one just had anything to say further at the moment. Rema slowly reached out and touched the Mad King's shoulder to gain his attention before she dropped her hands, looking a tad embarrassed.

"Do you remember when we first met? How scared I was?"

"Didn't stop you from giving me a snappy comment when I told you that you were hardly more than a child though," Gangrel replied, the faintest of smiles crossing his features. "Something about how I could only be a few years older than you at least—and that my behavior resembled something a child even younger than you would do."

"I thought you were going to have me executed for sure," the noblewoman recalled. "Until you started laughing that is. That's when I realized that you weren't like the other nobles I knew: you were more like a real person that everyone in the entire court combined. Before...you know."

"Before killing Ylisseans became more important than the country I was to protect you mean," the trickster remarked. "When I was a king and not a butcher."

"It can be like that again," the brunette suggested. Gangrel turned and looked straight into her hopeful golden eyes.

"No Rema, it can't. I won't let it. If I ever sit upon Plegia's throne again, I will just revert back into the monster I was and I will not inflict that kind of pain upon our...on _your_ people again," he stated firmly, bitterly. "It would destroy Plegia entirely and I can't be the one to do that to her."

"What about Nisha?" Rema pressed. "She wouldn't let you regress again."

"Nisha has her place in Ylisse. I won't take away the life she built for herself there just to try and stop the madness from consuming me again. I'm going to Plegia to see what help I can provide and what the Exalt can do to alleviate the situation. That's all, so don't act like I'm returning home. I can't let it be my home. Not after I did so much damage."

The Mad King's voice had begun at a normal volume, but by the time he had finished, it was barely louder than a whisper. His features were filled with shadow that the weak firelight failed to touch, making him look decades older and wearier than he actually was—like a man who had seen too much of the atrocities of life without enough beauty to counterbalance it. Rema'e brow furrowed a d she slowly rose to her feet before disappearing into the night, probably to pace about and fret about their utter lack of a plan for when they arrived. Gangrel did not acknowledge her leaving, simply returning to his small tent to lie down and look at the ceiling until morning came or sleep took him for a few hours—whichever .

* * *

 _The morning light was blinding through the small house, but that was not what woke the young boy nestled in his bed: it was the sound of suppressed sobs, choked and barely contained. The child sat up, his red hair all but standing on end from his restless night, and krept into the kitchen of the small home his parents had built. There, at the table, sat his elder brother, his head in his hands._

 _"Leo?"_

 _The older boy jolted, whirling to face his younger sibling in alarm. The small child padded into the room, looking about on a confused manner._

 _"Why are you sad? Where's Papa?"_

 _"P-papa is gone," Leo replied shakily, his eyes watering. His hand tightened around a golden chain that lay coiled on the wooden tabletop._

 _"When will he be back?" the smaller boy asked, clambering up onto a chair. These words seemed too much for the older boy and his face reddened with conflicting emotions._

 _"Gangrel, he's dead," the elder redhead snapped. "He's never coming back."_

 _"D-dead? Like...like mama?"_

 _Leo nodded, his whole body trembling. His younger brother began to cry._

 _"No! Papa promised...he would wait until I was all grown up before he joined Mama! He promised!"_

 _"Gangrel!"_

 _The shout silenced the child, though he continued to sniffle. His brother stood and held up the chain that had been clenched in his fist. At the end of it dangled a pendant, shaped like a crooked sword._

 _"Papa gave me this," the older boy announced. " He said whoever wears it is the one in charge of this family, and right now it's me. I_ _promised to look after you until you're big enough to be on your own and that's what I'm gonna do."_

 _Leo put the pendant around his neck before he strode around the table to hold Gangrel by the shoulders._

 _"Now, we're gonna make it through this. But I need you to help me."_

* * *

 _A/N: And so we introduce a new plotline into the mix: my headcannon for Gangrel's rise into power! Never fear, it will eventually be relevant to the main action. Until then, adieu._


	13. Ashes

_A/N: I think this website should be listed as an abused substance: I'm mortally addicted. Clearly I can stop putting stuff up for you guys, even though it's Finals Week. Oh well! :)_

 _Love and appreciation goes out to Lady Weavile 461 (Doing better except for, you know, finals :) ), Sugouxxx (Glad yo see you're interested!) Emozenith (I can't even say how happy your reviews make me!) and Brenna Snow! (My headcannon has gotten so elaborate, you don't even know. The Grimleal ruling structure is just one bit of what resides in my head!)_

* * *

 _"Leopold!"  
_

 _The name was called out by a young voice and the teenager turned away from the well to see his dirty seven-year old brother come sprinting towards him._

 _"Hey Gangrel,"he greeted. "How was the market?"_

 _"Easy," the young boy replied eagerly. "I have dinner and breakfast. Maybe some snacks!"_

 _"Good job," Leopold congratulated him, smiling faintly. "I just finished getting the water, so go on home and I'll be along soon enough."_

 _Gangrel gave a mock salute as he trotted off to their small home, making sure to enter through the glassless back window instead of the door: the merchants were just across the road from the house and didn't know this was where he lived yet; they would surely demand their wares back if they realized that the infamous child thief wasn't just like the other street rats. The redhead put his satchel of food on the table and slipped back outside to the water barrel in order to wash the sand off his face and the the dirt he had smeared into his hair to make it look more brown. The disguise was important to ensure he wasn't recognized: Leopold had once been caught in the act of thievery and it was only because Gangrel had been quick enough to throw a rock at the vendor and distract him long enough for his brother to slip away that they hadn't been captured. Of the two of them, the younger was the better at stealing mostly due to his size, speed, and naturally quiet demeanor. It also didn't hurt he was rather clever for his age._

 _His older brother walked through the front door and saw Gangrel toweling himself off out the window and called him back inside, which the boy quickly obliged. Without needing to speak, the pair opened up the satchel of food and began to divide it up._

 _It had almost been four years since their father had died, and their home had since fallen into a state of disrepair with holes in the roof and the windows all cracked. Leopold did his best to close up the leaks during the rainy season, but was often working odd jobs for anyone in the village who had need to try and scrape together gold for all the food they ate. The wages he earned were hardly ever enough though, so the two made do by stealing food and saving their money for things that were difficult to steal or for special occasions—not that there were ever very many of those._

 _Their lunch was already well underway when there were the sounds of loud arguing coming from outside. Gangrel stood on his chair to look out of one of the windows facing the road, but couldn't see anything aside from an angry crowd._

 _"What's going on?" he asked curiously. Leopold shrugged and stood up, moving to the door and opening it._

* * *

The small party of three made it all the way to the Plegian desert without any incident. Day after day, their horses trotted up and down sand dunes, usually moving only during the morning and evenings to avoid the majority of the heat. The scenery wasn't much to look at, so conversation reigned supreme as the chief form of entertainment. It didn't take long for chatter to transform into storytelling and Rema soon found herself thoroughly educated in all of the Sheperd's conquests. Every so often they would come across a village and stay there for a day, but Gangrel always put up the hood of his traveling cloak and chose to remain silent whenever they did.

It was one particularly blazing day when the three riders came to the next small village that had been marked in their route, but right away it was apparent something was wrong: from a distance, they were unable to see any buildings at all. Nisha blamed the heat and bright sunlight, but the Mad King suppressed a shiver when he took his turn glancing at the map to confirm they were in the right place. It felt as though someone had just walked over his grave. Or rather, that he had discovered he was standing on one without having realized it before.

When they rode up on the place where the village should have been, all they found were charred skeletons of what had once been homes and shops. It was clear the damage had been done some time ago: all the remaining structures were blackened stone and rusty pieces of metal such as nails, not a single plank of wood in sight. There was no ash either, most likely blown away over the time of its of abandonment.

"I don't understand," Nisha remarked confusedly. "Why would the people in the other village direct us this way if this place is deserted?"

"Communications between desert villages are few and far between," Rema explained sadly. "There were likely no survivors of the fire who made it to the village we just left."

Gangrel stayed silent as he ran his hand over a lone stone column. Then he turned to the pair of women.

"We should camp here for the night," the trickster announced. "There's probably a water source nearby where we can refill our supply for the next leg of our journey. Most likely won't be another village for a few days."

"Yes, I agree," the young diplomat added. "We've had a long day anyway."

The tactician looked ready to protest, but she swallowed her words and went back to the pack horses to get their tents and begin setting them up. It wasn't long before after noon faded and night had fallen. Rema had retired to an early bed, leaving just the two lovers alone by the fireside. Nisha was in Gangrel's lap again and she snuggled against him as she dozed. Sudden wailing cries suddenly pierced the night air and the tactician jumped.

"What's that?" she whispered, alarmed. Her fiance chuckled.

"Relax Nisha. It's just the sand wolves; they howl at night sometimes in the dunes when they communicate. They don't like fire and won't come near us."

The dark-haired woman bit her lip uncertainly, but rested her head back against Gangrel's chest, sighing heavily.

"What's wrong?" she finally asked. "You've been acting ever stranger than usual since we got here this afternoon."

The Mad King sighed, burying his face in his fiancee's hair before he rested his chin atop her head.

"This village...it reminds me of the one I was born in. Just another little desert town with nothing hugely special about it. But then... _they_ came and destroyed it.

"Who came?"

"The Grimleal."

* * *

 _Leopold squinted into the bright sunlight just outside the door._

 _"I think it's the cult," he remarked. "There's twelve of them and they're all dressed in purple."_

 _"Let me see!" Gangrel cried, jumping off his chair to peek out the doorway. He saw that his brother had indeed been telling the truth: a dozen strangers were moving through the angry mass of villagers by the merchant stalls, all wearing hooded cloaks with golden borders. He couldn't see any of their faces, but they seemed upset about something._

 _"What are they doing here?" the little boy asked, looking up at his elder sibling. Leopold shrugged._

 _"Probably checking to see if people are still worshiping the Fell Dragon. Lots of places don't follow their religion anymore. C'mon, let's just keep eating."_

 _The pair of brothers moved back into the house, closing the door to the outside. They had just begun to eat again when there was a sudden rush of heat and bright flash from outside the window. Gangrel fell backwards off his chair in shock as Leopold jumped to his feet in alarm. The teenager ran to the door and threw it open, inviting a powerful wind smelling of smoke into the home._

 _"What's happening?!" the young thief cried as his brother stared with horror outside._

 _"They're burning the village!" Leopold yelled, shock making his voice tremble. His bright eyes widened and he slammed the door shut before rushing over to Gangrel's side and hauling him to his feet. "We have to get out of here!"_

 _But they would never have that chance: even as they made to run, a sudden explosion of heat knocked them to the ground. Flames_ _—doubtlessly conjured from one of the Grimleal's dark spellbooks_ _—ate away at the wooden walls and roof of the house. Both boys sat up, their faces smeared with dirt as their only home came filled with black, sooty smoke._

 _"Leo, I'm scared," Gangrel whispered, unable to look away from the vivid red light that bled through the wooden beams surrounding them. His older brother looked down at him with worried crimson eyes that shone in the glow of the fire. His features hardened and the older boy reached under his shirt, pulling out the golden sword pendant that he always wore. After a moment hesitation, the chain came over Leopold's head and was hastily settled around the seven year-old's neck._

 _"Run," he ordered firmly. "Run and don't look back. I'll try to get out another way, but if we both go, they'll catch us."_

 _"But what if they make me explode like the house did?" the young thief asked, terror evident on his face._

 _"The pendant will keep you safe, but if I don't meet up with you outside the village to take it back, I'm probably dead. If that happens, you must never take it off, understand? If you don't keep it on at all times, it can't protect you."_

 _Leopold swallowed, taking his little brother by the hand._

 _"I love you Gangrel. Truly."_

 _The redheaded teenager then shifted his weight before he darted from the hiding place, making for a gap in the flames where the door had been. His younger brother screamed his name before smoke inhalation forced him to double over coughing. When his eyes stopped watering, the boy shakily rose to his feet and began to run blindly, heading for the window near the water barrel. Without thinking about the burns he would get from touching the mostly-blazing wood frame, the young thief clambered outside, plunging his blistering palms into the water barrel to soothe them before he began to sprint down the road, towards the outskirts of the village. He could hear people screaming, see the faded shadows of the cultists casting their deadly spells as he ran past, but he did not stop: he was too frightened to. Those cries of pain and anguish could have just as easily belonged to him, and he had no desire to let that happen._

 _By some miracle, none of the attackers noticed the child fleeing the site of desolation: Gangrel was able to make it out of the village without any more harm befalling him than the stinging on his hands and the irritation of his lungs. The redheaded boy could feel the soot and ash on his skin and groaned at the thought of having to bathe again so soon after his last cleaning-up. The thief hid himself between some scrubby brush that was growing from the rocks scattered about and decided to wait for his brother to arrive, so they could make a plan._

 _Leopold had promised to make it out, to join him. But he could't help but fear..._

* * *

"...he didn't make it, did he?" Nisha asked softly. Gangrel shook his head swallowing against the lump in his throat.

"When he didn't turn up like he promised, I wandered across the desert for days until I stumbled across a merchant caravan who took me to Plegia's capital," he continued, concluding his tale. "After that...I was all alone in making my way in the world. I stole what supplies I could and was content to just survive for a time...until the war broke out with Ylisse."

The tactician remained silent, leaning against him as she pondered what he had told her. At length, she leaned in and kissed the Mad King's cheek, wishing him a goodnight as she went to her tent. Gangrel smiled faintly, feeling a surge of affection for his fiancee at her understanding his desire to be alone. A pang of guilt ran through his chest a the knowledge that he hadn't told her everything, but there was too much still left to tell...and really, she didn't need to know too much about his past; it was all behind him anyway.

The sand wolves quieted their howling and the wind gusted over the dunes, letting the ghosts slowly creep back in around the fire.

* * *

 _He waited. And waited. And waited. The flames had long burned themselves to coals and then ashes, but still Gangrel waited for Leopold to emerge from the ruins of their village._

 _He didn't cry: his grief went beyond tears. It was fuel for the growing heat in his stomach, the first sparks of rage and something even hotter and more dangerous: hatred._

 _The Grimleal had murdered his brother. Now he was going to do the same to them._

* * *

 _A/N: ...aaand cut! That's a wrap folks!_

 _EDITS: Nothing major. Just some grammar, spelling, and the inclusion of a moment I thought I wrote but apparently didn't. And for anyone who was confused, a sand wolf is a coyote._


	14. Games

_A/N: SO this bit is mostly fluff because I was too busy with school kicking back into gear again and getting over my exhaustive fangirling after attending IKKiCON on Saturday. Seriously, there were cosplays...cosplays everywhere (Including some very well-done FE:A ones that I got some very blurry photos of.)_

 _To my reviewers—*starts throwing cookies like frisbees*—you all get cookies! Deathnotegirl101! (And I am just as excited to deliver!) Emozenith! (Excellent feedback as always!) Brenna Snow! (Do you think you can handle all the headcannon? It's more of a head-howitzer at this point.) Lady Weavile 461! (Yes, yes! Tis MOAR!)_

 _For the record, I have been looking at a map of the continent that I pulled together with gameplay images in order to work out all these locations for where they all are at any given point. I have links to both the plain and annotated maps up on my profile if y'all ever want a reference for any locations._

* * *

 _He was hungry. So so hungry. Anything would have been delicious, even if it was rotten._

 _Gangrel had been in the capital city for less than a week after the merchant caravan had dropped him off in the market and already it was clear that this place had very different rules than his home village: soldiers patrolled and chased off the solitary young boys and girls who stared longingly at the food for too long and had a shifty look about them. The young redhead was only alive because of a stale loaf of bread he had swiped from the merchants and the water in the wells were for the use of all city residents and guests. But now he was out of supplies again and his attempts at swiping a handful of dates had ended with Gangrel being chased into the slums by an angry guard._

 _The young thief sat on the hard, dusty ground, his back pressed against one of the crumbling homes that lined this district's streets. He had to get up. He had to go find food. But he was so tired..._

 _"Hey you, little bit."_

 _The voice interrupted Gangrel's thoughts and he cracked open one eye to squint at the blurry figure who cast a shadow over him._

 _"Yeah you with the red hair. I know you can hear me."_

 _"And what if I were deaf?" Gangrel asked cheekily, still managing to dredge up some humor despite his exhaustion._

 _"Then I'd poke you to get your attention. Now open your eyes and look at me so I can decide what to do with you."_

 _Not really in the mood to argue, the young boy complied, letting his eyes adjust to the harsh sunlight before the hazy shadow standing above him came into focus._

 _The first thing he noticed were the bright colors the person was wearing: scarves of yellow, emerald and royal purple were draped over their body like a travelling entertainer. It was then he noticed that the person was a woman and a fairly beautiful one at that: the dark brown skin of her face was free of any blemishes aside from a small crescent-shaped scar by her eye and her curly black hair was shiny and luxurious, framing her shapely cheekbones and neck._

 _"You hungry?" asked the strange woman, tilting her head to the side. Gangrel stared up at her, uncomprehending until she reached into a pocket made by one of her many scarves and withdrew a half-loaf of bread, fresh enough so that the scent of baking still carried in the air. Without thinking, the hungry child snatched the food from her and shoved as much as was humanly possible into his mouth._

 _"Oh wow," the woman laughed. "You really were hungry, weren't you?"_

 _The thief couldn't reply due to his mouth being stuffed full of bread, but he gave an embarrassed half-smile before he continued chewing._

 _"You new here, little bit?"_

 _"Yeah," Gangrel replied after swallowing a large mouthful of food and nearly choking on it. "Not even a week."_

 _"Thought so. I saw you at the market, getting chased by that guard. You've got talent at pickpocketing, but not with so much security. A little practice and you'll be doing just fine."_

 _"If I don't starve first," the redhead muttered._

 _"Well, that's where I could help you out," the woman suggested. "I run a...well syndicate of sorts out here in the slums. Bunch of kids who all need to eat. I get them off the streets and in turn they help keep the others who I find fed."_

 _"I didn't come here to make connections," Gangrel protested._

 _"Yeah? Well, where else you gonna go, little bit? The Grimleal? Good luck getting charity from anyone else in this town."_

 _The young boy got to his feet, scowling as he folded his arms._

 _"Maybe I don't want your help," he challenged. "Maybe I wanna work to get what I deserve."_

 _"I said charity, not handouts. Trust me, you'll be working for every morsel of food you'll get and every minute of rest I'll allow."_

 _"I don't even know your name!"_

 _"And I don't know yours either, so we're on even ground. Now do you want to come with me or not?"_

 _The two locked eyes for a long moment before the woman smiled._

 _"What do you call yourself, little bit?"_

 _"Gangrel," he replied, a tad sourly._

 _"Hmph. Don't like that much—sounds trashy. How about I call you 'G' or something and you can call me Tia?"_

 _"G?" Gangrel raised an eyebrow at her, but that didn't stop him from grinning. True, he_ _was still hesitant, but nonetheless, he took Tia's outstretched hand._

* * *

The monotony of the journey to Plegia was beginning to wear on the party: they had been riding across mostly flat land or dunes for almost two weeks and conversation was only interesting when there were new things to talk about—which was becoming rather scarce, truth be told. The only new things to discuss were matters that were either sensitive or deeply personal and rarely involved all three of them present.

It soon became apparent that Rema wanted to discuss one such matter with the Mad King—or potentially several things seeing as there was a three-year gap between her last time seeing him in person. But every time Nisha went to the market of a town on her own or went to refill their water supply, the noblewoman would awkwardly attempt conversation with Gangrel, who rarely replied as her starting points all required him to explain his thoughts and feelings in more than a few words. Back during his previous reign, the trickster would have enjoyed her constantly stumbling over her own words and the embarrassment she brought upon herself, but now he just became more irritated with each failed attempt to get him talking. Now, it just irritated him. It was time to and this silly beating around the bush.

"Rema, would you like to play a game?"

The question was very sudden and the diplomat looked away from unsaddling her mount and back at where the Mad King had propped himself against the wall of the town's tavern, the shadow of his cloak hood hiding the upper half of his face.

"What kind of game?" she asked suspiciously.

"The kind where you ask me any question you want and I can either answer it or decline to. Oh and every time I answer something, you have to do the same."

"I'm...not sure I like those options."

"Then we can resume your failed attempts to get me talking then," the trickster shrugged. "It's all the same to me anyway."

Rema bit her lip, clearly wanting to take him up on his offer, but uncertain of what he might ask her in return for the answers she might get. But Gangrel knew he had already won; it was clear as day to him.

"Go ahead," he prompted. "Ask away; I know you've been dying to."

"A-alright," the golden-eyed woman said shakily, leaving her horse so stand before the hooded man. "Hmm...from what I've gathered, you've only been with the Ylissean Shepherds for almost a year. So where were you during the two years previous?"

"Skip," Gangrel sated boredly.

"But—"

"Skip," he insisted. "Ask something else."

"Very well...what is your relationship with this Morgan Nisha keeps talking to you about?"

"Skip."

Rema frowned, clearly frustrated that every attempt to get answers was being met with opposition. Sighing heavily, she tried again.

"Did you really want to come back to Plegia? You've seemed very reluctant..."

"No and that's all I'm saying on the matter," Gangrel replied with finality. "My turn. Were times as tough on the non-believers during Validar's reign as they are with the new Fell Priest on the throne?"

"Well yes and no," the diplomat said slowly. "The Grimleal started overseeing everything and would steal people away for their dark rituals far more openly...but they also used their magic to defend the common people and to create larger harvests for the farmers. It was...odd."

"I'd imagine," the trickster mumbled. Tensions between the cult and the non-believers were usually so intense that there was an invisible boundary line across the center of the country to divide where the majority of each group lived, with the Grimleal staying in the more southward regions and those who wanted nothing to do with the dragon-worshipers staying to the North. True, there were small groups people who denied the stereotype, but they were few and far between and were often targets of suspicion.

"I suppose it's my turn again." Rema's voice broke through the Mad King's musing and pulled him back into the present. "How long have you and Nisha been engaged?"

Gangrel had to actually think about that one for a minute. He hadn't proposed until late winter, before the new year, and it was early summer now; but then again, there was still a large gap of time between her "death" and her return.

"In total, it's been about five months, but Nisha was absent for more than three of them."

"Was that after she killed the Fell Dragon?" Rema pressed eagerly. "I had heard rumors among the cultists and—"

"The agreement was one question in exchange for an answer," the trickster reminded her. "Do you want me to answer that now or will you let me ask mine now instead of two at once."

The brunette made an enraged sound and actually stamped her foot against the ground.

"Are you trying to _avoid_ giving me answers because you're doing a _brilliant_ job at that," Rema snapped, her patience clearly run dry.

"Would you prefer I answer that now or wait until I've asked you a few questions in return?"

Gangrel tilted his head back so the young noblewoman could see he was smirking and understand that he didn't intend to antagonize her any more than she would allow him. Rema's face was red with mixed anger and embarrassment and the Mad King took it as a sign to pull back on the teasing.

"If you want to know more about where Nisha was after Grima fell, you'll have to ask her."

"Ask me what?"

The tactician had returned from asking after rooms for the night within the town's inn and she looked at the pair curiously. At the discovery, Rema seemed to have become suddenly very tongue-tied which Gangrel had figured she would: in the past days of mischief during his early reign he had found this quality to be quite inconvenient if she were an accomplice but quite helpful if she were a scapegoat. As she was the former in this situation, he decided to rescue her.

"Well I don't know; that's why we need to ask you," the trickster quipped, pushing himself off the wall. "How were things at your end?"

"Successful. We all now have a place to sleep for the night. Tomorrow, we can stop by the market and replenish our saddlebags. After that, it's back to business as usual: up and down the dunes."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Rema teased, her tension fading. "Think of the conversation we'll have! That's always fun, isn't it?"

"Oh yeah. Best part of this trip will be when I learn to fall asleep in the saddle and not fall off," Gangrel drawled. "Especially since you two haven't let me hear the end of that one yet."

"If we didn't make fun of you, how else would we show you we cared?" Nisha asked cheekily. The Mad King raised his eyebrows and gave a suggestive smile.

"I can think of a few ideas," he suggested slyly. The diplomat went vibrantly red at the comment and the dark-haired tactician blushed a little before she swatted him on the arm.

"What have I told you about saying things like that in public?" she hissed. Gangrel chuckled and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, leaning in close to whisper in her ear.

"All part of the game, tactician. After all, I warned you I wouldn't be giving it up so easily, didn't I?"

Odd though it may have seemed, as Nisha rolled her eyes at him and told him off, all felt right with the world. There was no looming threat of civil war, no internal conflict raging within the former king of this country. It was just another day and the Mad King felt wholly himself for the first time in months.

* * *

 _A/N: I wish I could drop hints...but I'm evil like that. All I'm saying is the next chapter is most likely going to be a very long one and very flashback-rich. The parallels...okay, I'm going to stop before I become a liar. Ciao!_


	15. Convergence

_A/N: I apologize in advance if this reads a bit choppy; I was doing lots of time skipping between each line-broken scene so as not to make an entire chapter that was solely in the past. It's essentially two chapters in one here.  
_

 _I know life is busy, so all my readers and reviewers have my deepest love and gratitude! Virtual hugs for my_ _reviewer_ _trio! Brenna Snow! Emozenith! (Tia is an OC. Awakening is the first one of the series I played and I know nothing of the other games aside from the people who show up in SmashBros, so unless I accidentally cloned somebody...) And Lady Weavile 461!_

* * *

 _The sun was shining and all appeared right in the world as the young redheaded thief strode briskly through the slums. Children ran over when they saw him, calling his name, but he did not acknowledge them aside from waving in their general direction distractedly._

 _The inhabitants of the slums called this particular area the Hub: Tia ran her little syndicate—as she liked to call it—from here. It was the dropoff point for all the kid and teenage thieves she employed and also housed the girls and boys at night so they didn't get picked up by the night patrols and put in the workhouses. Tia was often with the smaller kids during the day, but it was just after the noonday meal, so she would likely be in her "office" measuring what food was left over._

 _Gangrel pushed aside the curtain that blocked off Tia from the rest of the Hub's activities and the dark-skinned woman glanced up at him with a smile._

 _"Afternoon G. You need something? You're normally showing off to the kids 'round this hour."_

 _"You haven't seen Rey around here, have you?" the young man asked briskly, his tone businesslike._

 _"In the Hub? No. He wanted to go out and throw stones at the guards again—foolish activity that."_

 _Gangrel thanked her shortly and left the Hub just as quickly as he had gone in. Though his blank expression gave no sign of it, he was beginning to feel the first traces of panic, his mind hyperfocused on the lack of the weight of his golden chain around his neck and the pendant resting on his chest._

 _Four years again had it been since his world had changed. Gangrel had reached the ripe old age of twelve and had settled in very well to his new role of stealing food for the kids Tia cared for and tutored. He had actually become one of the children's favorite friends, always willing to show off a trick or wrestle with them. But he had gotten too careless: about an hour previous, he had literally run into an older thief in the syndicate called Rey. Gangrel wasn't as familiar with this particular sixteen year-old as he kept to himself, but he did know that Rey was not all there in the head: he was a kleptomaniac who had a weakness for shiny things and a thirst for risk that got him into trouble regularly with the city soldiers. And that pea-brain had stolen his pendant! For four years, Gangrel had never let it part company with his skin and now it was beyond his reach—at least until he found the older boy._

 _Rey was sitting on a stone wall in the market when a pebble struck the back of his head. Curious, the dirty blonde-haired boy twisted around and saw a familiar face: a fellow "gatherer" for the Hub. Grinning, he stood up and approached Gangrel, who leaned against the wall, arms folded._

 _"Hello there G," he greeted him. "How are you doing this fine—"_

 _Rey never got to finish his greeting because the redheaded preteen and grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around, slamming him into the stone building to the side of the market road._

 _"Where is it?" Gangrel hissed. "And don't play dumb with me: you know what I'm talking about."_

 _"Huh? Oh, the necklace. Right." Rey shrugged, his expression sheepish. "Sorry G, I don't have it anymore."_

 _"What?"_

 _Gangrel's tone was flat and icy as his eyes narrowed. Rey began to get nervous and swallowed. For someone who hadn't even hit puberty yet, the kid could be terrifying when he wanted to be._

 _"One of the local merchants got me. Rich looking guy, owns a big house in the middle of the city. He said he'd take the pendant in exchange for what I nabbed off him, so I handed it over."_

 _The surge of rage, hatred and despairing terror that emerged on the younger thief's face had Rey cowering at a single glance. After a moment, Gangrel got control of himself._

 _"You are going to take me to this merchant's home," he commanded, his tone low and intense, "or I will do things to you so painful, you'll be begging Grima to take you."_

 _The older boy nodded, trembling. While it didn't take much for Rey to get intimidated by anyone—empty, insincere threats were often all it took—Gangrel's words were backed by his incredible and sometimes alarming creativity. The blonde had heard what kind of scary stories that the preteen told and the details were often rather hard to stomach, even if they were just for the purpose of making one uneasy. If that was what he came up with for fun, he didn't want to see what the younger thief could think up when he was angry._

* * *

It was late at night and as per usual, Gangrel was wide awake. He watched Nisha sleeping in her bed, silently appreciating the fact that she reserved them a large room with separate beds so they wouldn't be far from one another. It was far from the norm as sleeping arrangements went, but then again, she was the Shepherds' tactician; she lived and breathed the unconventional.

The first shout came through the darkness like a bolt of lightning: sudden and alarming. The Mad King initially froze at the sound before he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of his mattress. The quiet was eerie, but it soon evaporated as more shouting rose from outside the window alongside the orange glow of torchlight. Gangrel quietly got up and padded across the room, looking down into the main road to see what was going on.

The citizens of the town were clearly waking up as well: he could see their faces, shining in the mixture of moon and firelight, from their windows, saw the men coming outside of their doors, many of them carrying weapons.

"What's going on?" Nisha's sleepy voice asked from behind, accompanied by a yawn from the still-partially-asleep tactician.

"Not sure," the trickster replied, his voice low. Turning on his heel, he scooped his hooded cloak off the end of his bed and fastened it before he grabbed his boots and pulled them on. "I'm gonna go check it out."

"Wait for me," Rema added, slurring her words as she sat up with her eyes closed. "I just need a minute to..."

She trailed off as her mouth went slack and she fell backwards onto her blankets. Gangrel shook his head.

"Nisha, help her wake up," he instructed. "I'll be back in a minute."

The redhead opened the door and stepped outside, moving swiftly down the hall as he pulled the hood up to conceal his face.

* * *

 _Rey had said this was crazy, especially to do in broad daylight, but Gangrel had no choice: he swore could sense an invisible time limit slipping away the longer he was without his pendant. The anxiety was eating him alive, the thought that his only link to his beloved brother haunting every second it was gone from him._

 _The walls around the merchant's manor were tall and imposing, the gates sealed shut tight. Yet not once had this man seen the security flaw of having a wall with just enough space to stand at the top and had never once thought that anyone would dare to climb the tall palm trees lining the wall and jump over: the fall would almost certainly result in breaking a leg. But if there was one thing the merchant had never planned on it was the desperation of the thief who would attempt this insane break-in._

 _The redhead was trembling as he clung to the tree trunk above the wall, reaching out his foot towards the top of the wall just below. His boot touched the bricks and he squeezed his eyes shut, praying to the gods not to let him fall. With a burst of motion, he let go of the palm tree and hopped onto the wall. Dizziness overtook him as he looked down and it took all the willpower the boy had not to whimper in terror. Deciding to get the drop over with quickly, Gangrel turned backwards and lowered himself off the wall so he was dangling by his arms. Bracing himself against the stone, he pushed off, propelling himself outwards. As the earth rushed up to meet him, the thief angled himself so when he landed, his shoulder took the brunt of the impact as he went into a roll._

 _"Ow," he hissed, feeling the spot where he'd landed gingerly. That was going to bruise come morning._

 _The large house had no security as far as Rey had known, but the thief made certain to conceal himself behind whatever decor he could anyway; it had never hurt him before to be cautious. Every room he passed was peered into, but so far they were all offices or lounges of some kind._

 _Footsteps sounded as he passed the stairwell and Gangrel dove towards and tapestry and covered himself with it. He couldn't see who it was, but it sounded like there were two of them._

 _"And you mentioned something else that you wanted to discuss?"_

 _"Yes. I obtained something today in the market from one of those slum rats and I wanted you to check it for any sort of enchantment."_

 _"Why would something a homeless waif have be enchanted?"_

 _"I've examined it and it's very old. Heirlooms tend to be more than just trinkets, they have significance. Why not just pawn off the gold for food if he was poor? It was the only conclusion that made sense."_

 _The twelve year-old dared to lean out and saw a greying man clad in bright clothes holding up a pendant with a crooked sword on the chain. He was preparing to hand it over to a dark-skinned sorceror and in that moment, Gangrel saw his chance. Darting from his hiding place, the redhead snatched the necklace away from the merchant and ducked under the arms of the two men as he ran. He ignored the cries of shock and outrage behind him and hastily yanked the chain on over his head and he raced down the halls._

 _He had done it! He had gotten it back! But the moment of joy evaporated faster than water on a summer's day: with a sudden jolt, Gangrel found himself rendered completely immobile with some kind of supernatural force holding him in mid-sprint. A minute or two later, he heard the sorcerer's voice in his ear._

 _"Interesting. Very interesting indeed."_

* * *

Outside was dead silent as the Mad King slipped out the inn door. There were three men on horses carrying torches, all of them in very battered armor.

"These are Rucol's demands!" one of them was shouting as he wheeled his mount about. "Fail to meet them, and the entire village will burn! We will return in three days!"

With a shout to his fellows, the three horsemen kicked the sides of their animals and spurred them into the night, out to the desert dunes. Worried, the townspeople began to whisper among themselves.

"What are we going to do?" a voice asked. "That's our whole livelihood he wants."

Gangrel stayed on the fringes of the crowd, frowning deeply. He recognized the name of the man who had been seemingly giving the orders to the horsemen: Rucol. He was a formidable bandit who had once been a soldier before he deserted with an entire platoon of fellow warriors. He trained and maintained a veritable army of loyal followers and commanded them with brutal efficiency and had been one of the many bands of brigands the former monarch had hired to harass Ylisse. In all honesty, the trickster thought the man had retired to enjoy his wealth due to the lack of activity Rema had reported just a few days prior. But it seemed that settling down for anywhere too long without plundering wasn't Rucol's nature.

"We can fight."

The next words Gangrel registered out of his own thoughts were spoken by an older man, one whose hair was more silver than brown. He clearly had been a fighter in his younger days and kept himself ready for battle judging from both the scars that marked the man's arms and how fit he was.

"Talah, none of us know how to wield anything more dangerous than a scythe or hammer," another man protested. "Rucol has an army at his disposal, trained to kill."

"We have three days to prepare," Talah protested. "We just need enough time to fortify our homes and practice some basic drills."

"Those brigands will tear through your ranks and barricades," Gangrel said loudly, moving through the crowd until he stood before the older man. "Once he's finished with your men, he will either kill or steal away your women and children."

"And what makes you so certain we cannot win, stranger?"

The trickster looked around at the villagers with an appraising eye before he took another step closer to Talah, folding his arms.

"The first step to winning any battle is to have willing soldiers, and I see none here. How many of these men want to risk death?"

"Better a quick death on the battlefield then a slow one of starvation."

"And what about those who don't die in the battle?" the hooded man challenged. "Rucol and his forces will hunt everyone in this village until he has punished all who resisted him."

"What makes you so sure?" Talah asked suspiciously. "Who are you to tell us such things?"

Gangrel considered that question for a long time, debating about what to call himself settled on staying as close to the truth as he could.

"I'm nobody. Just someone...intimately acquainted with massacres and the mayhem left in their wake."

The tension radiating from the crowd was palpable in the air as the Mad King whipped around and stalked back to the inn, not looking at any of them.

* * *

 _Gangrel's stomach was aching with hunger, but he was fairly used to that feeling. What he was not used to was the soreness the iron manacles around his wrists and ankles caused. The cuffs were heavy and uncomfortable, but the guard of his cell hadn't paid any heed to his complaints and even seemed to be enjoying the sound of the thief's stomach grumbling._

 _After being caught, the sorcerer had appraised him for a long while with the help of magic and had asked the merchant permission to take him into custody to await of trial. The enraged merchant had agreed and insisted that his dark-skinned friend ensure the thief was punished accordingly for his crimes. Still bound with magic, the boy had been forced to follow after his captor through the streets like a slave being taken to be sold. They had come to the prison and Gangrel had been locked away, bit for some odd reason, the sorcerer insisted that the pendant not be taken away for Amy reason and threatened the guard with a very graphic image should he fail to obey this single command (which the young redhead could respect, albeit grudgingly)._

 _So now he waited for whatever fate would come to him. As far as he was aware, he would be in this cell for an indefinite amount of time with no hope of escape or release. Absentmindedly, the boy began to hum to himself in a vain attempt to pass the time._ _By the time a pair of soldiers had come to fetch him, the redheaded thief's voice was rough and scratchy._

 _"Where we going?" he asked conversationally. He was answered with a painful prod from one of the spears pointed at him._

 _"Shut up," one of the gruff men ordered. Gangrel stuck his tongue out and skipped beyond the reach of the second jab that followed the gesture._

 _The guards took him out of the main cell block and to a small room with a small stand and three seats, two behind the stand and one in the center of the room. The boy was dropped into the last chair and changed to it before the two soldiers left. A minute later, the door swung open again amd three men stepped inside. Two of them wore flat, faceless masks that looked as though they were made of gold and shapeless brown robes that concealed any tell-tale signs as to their identity. The last was the same sorceror who had been at the merchant's mansion._

 _As the two faceless individuals seated themselves behind the podium the sorcerer stood before the thief, arms crossed._

 _"Am I in trouble?" Gangrel asked teasingly, rolling his eyes when he got no response. "What do you want?"_

 _"I simply need to ask you a few questions, young man," the dark-skinned magic-user stated simply. "If I feel you are not being honest, I shall place a curse on you which will kill you of you speak any untruth to me."_

 _"Oh wow. You must be fun at parties."_

 _The sorcerer ignored that remark and moved straight on to the questioning._

 _"What do you call yourself?"_

 _"I. But when I'm introducing myself, I say Gangrel instead."_

 _Perhaps it was a bad time for humor, but in all honesty the boy was stressed and worried to such an extent that if he weren't cracking jokes, he'd be unable to speak and what a horrible tragedy that would be. In any case, the purple-cloaked man seemed neither amused nor incensed at the joke. The questions that followed were all answered in like fashion and by the time pause came, his interrogator knew that Gangrel was twelve years old, lived in a large "family" of non-relatives, that the pendant had belonged to his father, and that it had been stolen from him before it had been given to the merchant. However, it was the last question which was the most odd of them all._

 _"Are you aware that the pendant around your neck bears a curse?"_

 _"What?" the redhead blurted before he could stop himself. This seemed to be all the sorcerer needed because he nodded and turned back to the podium and began addressing the two masked figures._

 _"As I said earlier in our private conference, the pendant bears a curse: if anyone should wear it for longer than the space of one day, their life force becomes bound to it. As long as it rests around the users neck, then they are protected by its magic. But once removed, the curse will kill the owner of the pendant before midnight of the day it is taken off. However, the boy was unaware that any such magic was present and so his theft was truly intended as such. His break-in is a serious crime and I urge you to consider this as you exercise your judgement."_

 _"Excuse me," Gangrel spoke up, "I would like to know what sort of judgement we were discussing."_

 _They ignored him of course. The two faceless people whispered to one another for what seemed like an eternity before they rose from their chairs and spoke in unison._

 _"He is to join the others at the forefront."_

* * *

It was noon now, but no one in the small party had left their room in the inn except for brief forays out to get some food or water. The tension in the air between them was so thick it actually felt hard to breathe. Rema was pressing the other two to just leave, that this was the town's problem and did not concern them. Nisha was appalled to say the least.

"These are innocent people!" she exclaimed, pointing towards the window where the villagers could be seen worriedly discussing what had occurred the night before. "Your countrymen! How can you just leave them behind to die?!"

"Rema's been in Plegian politics for far too long," the Mad King commented as he paced. "It's not unexpected for a noble to run from these sort of conflicts, especially when its not even in their jurisdiction. Besides, diplomats only work with data and statistics, not people; I'm not surprised that she wants to get out before she's forced to realize these are human beings, not numbers."

"I don't want out lives to be in jeopardy!" the golden-eyed woman tried to defend herself. "We have a _job_ to do or have your forgotten?"

The black-haired tactician huffed irritably and sat down on her bed, folding her arms. There was a strained silence between the three of them as the trickster clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the floor.

"I can't leave," he finally said, his voice rough. His fiancee twisted to look at him earnestly as he leaned against the wall, the light from the window highlighting the deep shadows under his brilliantly scarlet eyes. "They're going to be _slaughtered_ by Rucol and his men. I can't _not_ help them. If I did, I would never be able to forgive myself."

Nisha rose and took her lover's hand just as someone knocked at the door. The Mad King immediately lifted up the hood of his cloak to shadow his face as Rema went to answer it. A voice drifted through the now-open doorway, one that belonged to the retired warrior during the meeting in the night.

"Is this the room where the hooded traveler is staying? I was hoping to speak with him."

"I'm here," Gangrel replied, cutting off the golden-eyed diplomat. "Come in."

Talah maneuvered inside, rubbing his forearm with his hand in a clear display of stress. The dark-haired tactician asked if he would like to sit, but the villager politely refused her though his eyes flicked over her cloak warily.

"Sir..." the older man inhaled deeply as if to calm himself before continuing, "the things you said to me last night have been bothering me. They're stuck in my mind."

"Noted," the Mad King stated tonelessly. "I can't do anything about that, however, so don't ask."

"What I wanted to say," Talah pressed as though he hadn't been interrupted, "is that you were right _—are_ right. We're no army and there's no way we can stand up to the bandits and survive. But you know battle; you could help us."

"You want me to train your men," the trickster finished. "You want my help in devising a strategy to protect yourselves."

"I wouldn't ask this if I thought there was any other way, stranger," the veteran implored. "Please."

Every eye in the room was on the cloaked man as he studied Talah quietly, his mouth—the only visible part of his face—tightly pressed and unmoving, giving nothing away of his thoughts. He stroked the back of Nisha's hand with his thumb absentmindedly before he released her and sat on the edge of the closest bed, leaning forward and steepling his fingers.

"When would you like me to start?"

* * *

 _A/N: Yay! Cliffies! Clearly I am evil, for now I have another long chapter to make you all wait for! /;)~_

 _If you need a reference for how Gangrel got into the mansion...I was watching some Assassin's Creed recently and got the idea from all the parkour. I hope the way I wrote his acrophobia was enough to keep MKG in character!_


	16. Outbreak

_A/N: Well, I kinda lied. Turns out this chapter is the one I was thinking of when I said it would be really long and would have some serious __parallels. Thing is, I didn't know it until I started planning this out and realized there would be twelve different sections trading between past and present with huge gaps in time between some of them which lead to me splitting this in half. So...yeah, that happened. (SORRY!)_ _  
_

 _If I could, I would give lovely gifts for all my lovely reviewing readers! Jarjaxle! (Another psychic in da house!) Lady Weavile 461! (Well...I do have a fragment of my time that could be considered a life that I have to attend to, else this website would be my second home. ;p ) Brenna Snow! (The specifics on that curse have been sitting in my head for way to long, let me assure you. Plus, I needed a little Dues Ex Machina in here.) Emozenith! (Skipping forward in time is my new best friend with those flashbacks. This would be a whole 'nother fic if I wrote out everything that's floating about in my head.) Texx! (It was the lack of finished fics that really got me invested into this project. Otherwise, I'd be drifting through fandoms, starting a fic a week and never finishing them.) And Pandora's gift! (*peeks into the darkness* I see you...)_

* * *

By the time word had spread through the town and the arguments about letting a stranger lead them into battle who wouldn't even show his face had abated, Gangrel was thoroughly annoyed and they were wasting daylight. It was almost evening when everyone had been gathered together before the Mad King, and he—keenly aware of their time limit—wasted no time getting right to it.

"I am aware that none of you are trained fighters," the trickster addressed the townspeople. "And I'll be frank: I don't expect any of you to be experts by the time I'm done with you. But you've worked very hard every day of your lives and are strong and healthy. That alone is a huge factor in your survival. But that's only half the battle: the other half is in tactics."

The crowd began to whisper amongst themselves nervously, clearly still uncomfortable at having to put so much trust in someone else's expertise despite the excessive amount of reassurance that had gone into convincing them to listen in the first place. Gangrel rubbed his forehead wearily.

"The battle plan is simple: each of you will be divided into groups and be positioned behind different barriers and fortifications," he explained. "Anyone who isn't fighting Rucol's men directly will be using the next two days to build those up instead of training. If Talah spoke truly, then you know who you are and I want you to go with my companion Nisha and work with her on gathering weapons and building materials. She'll direct you from there personally while I work with the rest."

Several individuals broke free of the rest of the crowd and moved towards the smiling tactician standing off to the side, though they looked about as uncertain with their roles as anyone else among the townspeople.

"Now there are only two things that I ask you keep constantly in your minds throughout this ordeal," the Mad King instructed those who remained. "The first is something you simply need to accept and get used to: in three days, people are going to die. It might be the bandits or your friends, but there will be more than one life lost in the battle to come."

Gangrel paused to let his words settle in to their minds. He could all but smell the shock that radiated off these villagers, taken completely off guard at how blunt he was being about the situation. As if they really thought being unrealistic and telling them they would all live would make it come true.

"Isn't your job to _keep_ us from dying?" somebody asked from the back of the group.

"Yes," the hooded redhead replied shortly. "But soldiers with years more training than you'll ever have still die in battle. No amount of practice can ensure your survival, only increase the chance that you will. None of you have ever seen battle, ever witnessed how swift and bloody death can be. If you see that for the first time and only then realize that death is staring you in the face, you'll break down and all but give yourself over to your own demise. I've seen it before and I do _not_ want to see it again when Rucol and his army get here. Am I understood?"

The harshness of the trickster's tone seemed to strike a nerve within them all and nobody dared to speak up again. Gangrel moved on.

"The second thing you must keep in your mind is an essential piece of strategy called the weapon's triangle. Each of the three main classes of weapons is effective against one other type and weak against another. We'll have to modify it considering you don't have many proper weapons if any, but the basic principle is the same: axes don't work as well against swords, swords don't work as well against lances and lances don't work as well against axes. Choosing which enemy to attack or avoid based upon your own weapon and theirs could save your life."

The Mad King paused again and looked at the frightened men and women standing before him. They had all volunteered for the fighting despite their concerns and fears, all unwilling to lay down and die without resisting the unfair aggression the brigands posed. But they were not soldiers. Gangrel had a lot of work to do.

* * *

 _The summer sun was hot as the lines of chained criminals were marched across the hard, dried ground by a set of guards. Gangrel felt very small compared to the adults who surrounded him, but did his best not to appear worried, trying to look bored if anything._

 _He had no clue what was going on. Ever since he had been proclaimed as one of the "condemned"—whatever in Grima's name that meant—nobody had even deigned to speak to him, had given no explanations for that one word which spelled out for his fate. Yet this morning, he had been dragged out of his cell while still half-asleep and lined up with other prisoners and forced outside into the mid-morning light. _

_It was noon now and they had not stopped for food or water. Many of the other chained men complained loudly to the soldiers, but their words fell upon deaf ears and unsympathetic hearts as they left the capital behind and advanced into the desert. Relief did not come for another two hours, when the prisoners were forced to a stop and sat down on the heated earth. Gangrel couldn't see anything over the heads of so many other prisoners and stated at the ground instead. And then he saw something that sent chills running down his neck._

 _Into the hard soil, there had been furrows dug in a crisscrossing, arching pattern right where they all were seated. The young thief had only seen patterns like that in one place: on the covers of the Grimleal's dark tomes._

 _It happened in only the barest fraction of an instant: the lines of the sigil flared with a violently purple glow and then there was nothing but white light the horrible sensation of being pulled apart in every possible direction. Then, just as quickly as it had started, the intense feeling vanished and the world returned._

 _Gangrel panted, feeling shaky and sick all of a sudden, his body coated with sweat. All around him, he could hear the groans of the other Condemned, all suffering the same as he. And then a voice cut through the air, harsh and authoritative._

 _"Up you sorry lot! Get up! I don't have time for your whining!"_

 _The twelve year-old looked for the source of the noise and saw a tall, deeply tanned man in armor standing at the edge of the group of prisoners, arms crossed and scowling. It was then the young redhead realized they were not in the same place as they had been before: instead of sun-baked dirt, they were seated on hot sand in a dip between two dunes. The distant city had vanished_ _—along with the handcuffs and chains binding them_ _—a_ _nd there were rows of tents further along the valley._

 _"Can none of you imbeciles hear?! I said get! Up! NOW!"_

 _The last word echoed like a whip crack and Gangrel jumped to his feet, more out of surprise than obedience. The other criminals were not so quick: the rose slowly, shaking like newborn foals and many of them fell down before they managed to stand properly._

 _"Pathetic. Absolutely_ _pathetic_ _,"_ _the armored man remarked spitefully, shaking his head. "Once you lowlifes get your heads out of the sand, form up and let me look at you maggots."_

 _Still slow and uncertain, the men did as they were told, most of them still clearly light-headed from their sudden transport. Once again, the youth amongst them felt incredibly out of place, small and weak compared to those that stood on either side of him. The soldier moved down the line, his eyes flickering over each of them with such intense dislike in his eyes that one could almost hear the judgements he made of each prisoner. Gangrel quickly changed his expression from worried to relaxed when it came near his turn and looked the tanned man straight in the eye, raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge that went ignored._

 _"In case nobody told you gutter trash what's going on here," the man announced when he finished moving down the line, "I am Lieutenant Colonel Garvan, head of the Condemned Battalion. You have all been deemed expendable by Plegia's justice system and have been put to work as soldiers fighting the Ylisseans instead of rotting in your cells. I will be blunt: almost all of you are going to die out here in the wastes, but for those of you who survive there is the promise that you'll be set free with a clean record. 'Cept chances are you won't make it, so don't waste any time on hope."_

* * *

It was before sunrise when the villagers were organized in ranks the next morning. Almost everyone was yawning except for the hooded trickster who stood before three stacks of various tools.

"The way this is going to work is fairly simple," Gangrel announced, resisting the urge to snap at all the exhausted townspeople. "You are all going to come over here and pick any of these tools that you want to use as your main weapon. Each tool has been identified as a specific type of weapon which I will tell you when you've chosen. Once you've picked, you'll divide into the groups based on the weapon you chose. Clear?"

There was a general grumble of assent that made the Mad King roll his eyes when the ambled forward to take their pick of the piles. One of the men took a hoe into his hands with some confusion and glanced sideways at the waiting redhead.

"What is this doing here?" he asked incredulously.

"Nisha said it could be used as a light axe, so she put it there," was the short reply.

"And what gives a Grimleal the right to say what's a weapon and what's not? Much less a Grimleal woman."

There was an icy silence from the cloaked redhead and the villager seemed to understand that he had said something wrong as his face paled significantly. When Gangrel spoke again, his voice was low, his tone stony.

"There are three things wrong with your statement," he informed the frightened man flatly. "First, she is not Grimleal. Second, she is a tactician who has won more battles than you've heard tale of. Third, I supported her decisions to sort these tools as weapons, so by questioning her, you question me."

Finished with his reprimand, the trickster turned away and dropped his tense form, having finished his reprimand. The villager slowly retreated, new worry on his face at the thought of having to follow a commander into battle who could change his mood on a whim. But with the threat so close, who else could they turn to? The town simply had to cast their lot with this madman...and hope his experience in battles unknown would save as many lives as possible.

* * *

 _Gangrel breathed heavily, looking at the iron sword in his grasp with undisguised dislike. He'd been conscripted as one of the Condemned for less than twenty-four hours and already he'd been ordered to prepare for war. By the gods, he was only twelve years old! Yet Garvan had simply raised an eyebrow at the young thief's protests and shoved him towards the pile of mismatched armor and weapons without another word._

 _So far, the boy had been attempting to get used to wielding a blade while also wearing his new armor for the past several hours. Most of the metal sets were too big for him so he had been stuck with hardened leather bracers and a half-bronze breastplate, but that made it no easier to maneuver in: it was like having a full pack attached to his front, determined to throw him off balance. And then there was the weapon itself: Gangrel was used to knives for close quarters fighting. The sword had about three extra feet of metal to swing around in comparison and wasn't very good at precision stabbing._

 _"Hey there short stuff."_

 _The thief jolted at suddenly being addressed and turned to see another one of the forced soldiers, this one a sandy blonde teenager covered in freckles._

 _"Looked like you needed a few pointers," the teen said cheerfully. "If you'd like, I can give ya some help."_

 _The redhead raised his eyebrows in surprise, but nodded. The older boy's grin widened as he stepped forward._

 _"We'll start with stance..."_

* * *

The three days were up. He had done all he could to prepare the villagers for the worst. Yet his mind still cast about, looking for something else he could have done to improve this town's chances of surviving eradication.

It was not particularly late at night yet, but Rema was already fast asleep in their room, worn out from helping add the finishing touches to the barricades. Nisha was dozing in her bed, on the edge of unconsciousness while Gangrel stood at the window. His vivid eyes were distant as he ran over their plan for what had to be the hundredth time.

 _Nisha and I are taking the main offensive to get at Rucol, the villagers are at the ready should the attack commence before the army realizes their leader is dead, Talah is at point to keep watch until the enemy forces are in sight and will then rally the villagers..._

"You know, I can hear you thinking from all the way over here."

The tactician's voice broke the Mad King's train of thought and he turned to see her sitting up in bed, smiling faintly.

"Just going over the plan again," he told her softly. Nisha sighed and stood, coming over to him and taking his arm.

"Whatever happens tomorrow—whether our plan goes smoothly or not—please know that I'm very proud of you," she murmured. "You've done a good thing here, trying to help your people."

Gangrel swallowed, a mixture of embarrassment and worry sneaking up on him at the thought. Yes, he had tried to help, but what if it were all for naught? What if everything backfired and the village burned anyway?

Soft footsteps sounded behind him and warm grasp surrounded his arm. The tactician's fingers brushed over his cheek before she slowly turned his head to face her. The sudden taste of her sweet lips on his mouth sent a jolt of pleasure running through him and the tension in his muscles unravelled.

"Nisha, if you think kissing me is going to distract me," the trickster said teasingly as he pulled away, "then you're only _partially_ right."

"How much is 'partially'?" the dark-haired woman asked in the same tone, smirking as she snuggled closer to him. Gangrel tilted his head as if he were thinking about it.

"Mmmm...about fifty percent."

Nisha rolled her eyes and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"I can tell when you're lying to me," she reminded him.

"Am I lying or do you not like me playing hard to get?" The Mad King smirked as his lover signed. "Fine. Seventy-five percent. That's the most I'll admit to."

"Glad to know I can help."

Gangrel chuckled and pulled his fiancee into a one-armed embrace, which she early returned.

* * *

 _The sun was long gone now, yet the young thief could not sleep. His mind was driving him crazy with fear and worry though he knew he should rest._

 _One week. He had been here a week and they were marching to battle the very next morning. The batallion was not ready to see action, and Garvan was still moving them right onto the front lines._

 _Gangrel stared up at the desert sky and swallowed, keeping his nausea at bay._

 _"I don't know if any of you gods are listening," he said to the stars, "but even if it's only Naga, I'll take it. It's a lot to ask...but I don't want to fight in this war. I want to go home, play with the kids, mess with Tia...can you at least give me that?"_

 _The stars, of course, did not answer. But suddenly the words of the Sorcerer who had captured him came to mind: "_ _the pendant bears a curse: if anyone should wear it for longer than the space of one day, their life force becomes bound to it. As long as it rests around the users neck, then they are protected by its magic. But once removed, the curse will kill the owner of the pendant before midnight of the day it is taken off."_

 _For once, the boy decided to cast his lot on the side of hope. Perhaps this curse could ensure his survival, his return to the city, to his family. All the same, he could not help but feel a trickle of dread. After all, everything had a cost in some form or another._

* * *

Why did everything come into such sharp focus when battle drew near? Gangrel felt as though his mind was more alert than it had been in a long time, that his body was more in sync with his thoughts and wishes than usual. He had been pacing just beyond the farthest barricade for almost an hour as he waited for Talah to sound the alert that Rucol's men were coming. Nisha stood in the shade of the makeshift construct she had helped to build, eyes closed as she meditated on some thing or another, silently going through her own preparation to fight.

"Incoming! Looks like a forming pincer maneuver!"

At those words, the Mad King stopped cold, inhaling deeply.

"Nisha," he said softly and the tactician was immediately by his side. Their fingers entwined as the villagers moved into battle positions, some of them uttering prayers aloud. Footsteps came behind him and the trickster turned his head to see Talah standing at his shoulder.

"Sir," the older man began, "if it would not be too much trouble, I would like to come with you."

"Why?" Gangrel asked, his tone clipped.

"You've done so much to help us here...and you're willing to sacrifice yourself here for the sake of me and my neighbors. I'm a soldier through and through and one thing that was drilled into me is that I must always follow my commander."

The trickster considered the idea briefly before he nodded at Talah in an affirmative. There was no harm in bringing him along; if anything, he might do some good as extra backup if things went sour.

The fighting had not yet begun, but the battle was already underway.

* * *

 _Gangrel had thought he knew what violence was. Living in the slums, he had seen fistfights, abuse, muggings, and the public whippings and executions the city guard occasionally carried out. But standing in the middle of a war zone, the boy came to the terrible realization that he had possessed no idea of what true violence was._

 _All around him, people were screaming. They were the cries of the injured, the dying, and those who were dead before the sound even fully left their throats. The stench of blood and sweat filled the air, making it hard to breathe, and the bright flashing steel of both armor and blades was as deadly as the wounds that soon followed. Men would step forward, living entities prepared to fight for their freedom and within seconds would be little more than a body on the earth, staining all the surrounding ground in scarlet._

 _He had tried to flee when the two sides clashed only to be intercepted by one of the enemy, bearing a steel sword. The thief had obeyed his first instinct and swung his sword. By some stroke of luck, he had managed to knock the grown man off balance with his hit, but the second swing the wild stroke had landed right between two plates of armor and suddenly the Ylissean had a sword lodged in his leg. Yet it was on the third attempt that the worst thing of all happened: after wrenching his weapon out of his opponent, the terrified preteen had aimed high...slicing open the man's throat. Blood spurted into the air, coating Gangrel's sword and hands with warm, sticky liquid. The boy watched in horror as the body hit the ground, very much dead._

 _He had just killed a man._

 _He was going to be sick._

 _Pain ripped across Gangrel's back as a lance seemed to appear out of nowhere to giving him the glancing blow. The sudden pain was too much and the redhead collapsed to the earth, his screams caught in his throat. A boot touched him and roughly turned him over so he found himself staring up at the gargantuan figure that stood shadowed above him._

 _Kill me_ _now_ _, he thought desperately. Get it over with._

 _But death did not immediately fall upon his head. Instead, the shadow stayed motionless and the thief finally dared to give his burning lungs some air. Way above him, the hard brunette eyes of the Ylissean man glittered with some emotion that Gangrel could not place, though it was slightly familiar to him. He closed his eyes in fear..._

 _...only to have sunlight strike his closed lids._

* * *

It wasn't particularly hard to find the brigand's leader: he was with an entourage of his warriors, overlooking the soon-to-be battlefield. The trio made their way towards him from the village, Talah tightly holding his sword, tension written in every line of his face. The other two were calmer, but only on the surface: the Mad King was struggling to contain the urge to send lightning raining down on Rucol's head and just finish this, but he knew that such brutality would only warrant a swifter death for the townspeople. This had to be handled in such a way that lives could be preserved.

"What have we here?" the large bandit asked with amusement. "A peace committee?"

"If that's what you want to call us, fine," Gangrel replied coolly. "It doesn't excuse your actions."

That made Rucol laugh.

"Well unless you're here to deliver me my loot, there's no way you'll convince me to call off my men."

"You misunderstand. We're not here to negotiate anything with you. We're here to kill you."

The casual way in which he made that statement caused an uneasy shift in the ranks of the bandit army. Gangrel noticed it and allowed himself a small smile. Glancing back at the two standing behind him, he saw Nisha's eyes widen as she realized what that tiny, collective movement meant and Talah's confusion as to why the brigands would react in such a way. For the first time since the first threat had been issued, the trickster allowed hope to rise inside of him. Stepping closer, he intoned in a low voice,

"Rucol, you have made a grave mistake."

* * *

 _A/N: I know that was a cruel cliffhanger...especially since I will probably be taking a break from Fanfiction for a potentially very long time. Sorry guys, but school has reached a point where I can't afford distractions from my studies. I hope to be back with intermittent updates, but I won't be working on this as an active project until after the workload slackens off-which knowing my school, wouldn't happen until about mid-May._

 _I feel really bad for having to cut off my production like this, but I need to preserve my sanity and right now, that means rationing my time. I love y'all!_

 _~Dem0nLight_


	17. Diverging

_A/N: So, the workload slackened off this week (Gracias, mi Maestra) and I was able to pull together another little chapter for y'all, wrapping up those pesky little cliffhangers I left for y'all last time. Consider it a pre-Spring-Break gift since I will be out of country during then. (I apologize in advance for awkward writing_ _—I've been very frazzled)._ _  
_

 _Thanks to both Emozenith and Brenna Snow for sending in their reviews! Y'all are da real MVPs!_

* * *

"Oh really?" the brigand leader drawled, seeming quite apathetic towards the threat that had just been made on his life. But Gangrel knew how to tell when a man was bluffing, when he simply put on a front of confidence. He saw Rucol swallow uneasily and how his eyes flickered towards his troops as if he feared their potential reaction to the trickster's threat.

"You have made three crucial errors," the Mad King remarked coolly, folding his arms with a smirk. "First, you brought the new recruits here with you instead of your experienced, war hardened soldiers. They're numerous, strong, and trained to use their weapons yes, but they're just thugs, used to easy jobs. They don't expect resistance...and I doubt they've ever seen one of their comrades die in battle."

The entourage of bandits glanced at one another uncertainly. Was this man threatening to kill them? Rucol's gaze hardened.

"Second, you predicted this village to be an easy target: either they would give in to your demands or your men would kill them all. But that's not the case here. This town has been preparing for three days, ever since your little ultimatum. Any minute now, your forces will move in to attack and find over a hundred villagers ready to kill them where they stand."

Talah gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his gaze flickering between the hooded stranger and the man he so rudely addressed. Nisha too was in a ready position, holding her tome close, fingers marking the pages to make it easier to open.

"And third," the redhead proclaimed coldly, "you weren't expecting someone like me. Someone who knows the business of war and death. Someone who knows how you operate...and how to manipulate the thoughts and emotions of those around him with little more than his words."

"You're mad," Rucol sneered, a droplet of sweat that most likely had nothing to with the growing heat of the day sliding down the side of his face. The trickster chuckled.

"Well," he sighed, brushing back his hood, "you're not wrong with that one."

The effect of the gesture was instantaneous: as soon as the bandit chief saw his face, the large man blanched, his skin going an unhealthy pale shade.

"Gangrel," Rucol whispered, seeming to choke on the word.

"Hello to you too," the Mad King said casually. The other man visibly suffered from an internal struggle for a moment before he pointed at the former king.

"Kill him!" he ordered his men.

Nisha reacted inhumanly fast: whipping open the tome, a powerful wind blew and knocked many of the rushing brigands off their feet, successfully snapping Talah out of his shock at the stranger's identity. The old soldier drew his sword and rushed forward to intercept the charge, the tactician covering his back. Gangrel didn't move, his eyes locked on the large bandit who seemed frozen in place. As his men fell, one by one, to both Talah's sword and Nisha's magic, Rucol slowly began to step backwards in retreat. And then the trickster saw it: the unmistakable panic of a man ready to flee.

It was over in half a second: when the brigand leader turned his back to make his escape, the Levin Sword in Gangrel's grasp flashed, the lightning it summoned striking the earth with a blinding flash. The small battle took pause as everyone reflexively shielded their eyes and turned to look at the scene when the bolt of electricity vanished.

Rucol was gone. All that was left was a charred corpse on the ground. Shouldering the crooked sword, the redhead turned back to the few men left standing from the scuffle.

"Now I will bargain with you," he stated calmly. "Drop your weapons and call off the attack or you all end up as cooked as your leader."

There was a pause, but one by one the brigands dropped their swords and axes and one of them took a horn from his belt and blew a series of notes that would signal the retreat to any of their forces still alive in the village. The men then turned and fled like the Fell Dragon himself were after them. Gangrel sighed and rolled his shoulders.

"Good riddance."

* * *

 _Gangrel studied the steel sword in his grasp, looking for any flaws in the blade that might require fixing. It had been three years since he had been conscripted to the Condemned Batallion, three years since that Ylissean cavalier had decided to spare his life in his first battle, and he had grown in many ways since those first fear-filled days. For one, he had gotten much taller than he had been and was no longer dwarfed by the other soldiers he trained and fought alongside. True, there was the downside of needing to eat ridiculous amounts of food to stay healthy, but considering how often the battalion lost men to the war, there always was plenty to go around._

 _That was another of the ways the young thief had changed: he had come to accept the terrible deaths of those around him, had gotten used to seeing the new ones come in fresh from Plegia's prisons and die any number of days or weeks later. True, there were those who survived for a while—several months even—but of the original company of men that had come in with Gangrel those few years prior, none remained but him. It was a grim truth, but a truth nonetheless. The young man dealt with it as best he could, often resorting to a rather dark and macabre sense of humor, but it still hurt to meet someone halfway decent only to have them die at a Ylissean's blade because they weren't quick enough._

 _And speaking of meeting some people..._

 _The new batch of convicts arrived as they usually did in a flash of purple lighting over the giant rune that had been dug into the dirt on the edge of the camp. The redhead had developed a habit of going to see what kind of new soldiers the battalion was getting, though he usually watched out of_ _Lieutenant_ _Colonel Garvan's line of sight. Somehow, he had earned his commander's deepest hatred, earning a special degree of disgust from all the other men who came through. Then again, he had lasted the longest and was by far the youngest and least expecte_ _d to. There was also a small issue of snark which made him one of the least popular figures among the Condemned as everyone had to suffer with him when he went too far._

 _Even while he was still out of sight, the thief could hear Garvan's grating verbal abuse of his new human meat shields. When he finally was able to see who the newest victims were, he froze, horror flooding his veins._

 _They were all his age._

 _There were about fifty of them and the boys ranged in age from thirteen to seventeen. They were pale and shaking from their Grimleal teleportation trip and they all just_ _looked so...fragile. These were not the usual death's row prisoners that had been sent: these were thieves who hadn't been careful enough, kids who'd been found in the wrong place at the wrong time._

 _Gangrel could see himself, his terrified, twelve year-old self, reflected in each of their faces. These boys were doomed to die._

 _"What is this?"_

 _Garvan turned with a scowl to the young man, not liking the icy tone in which that question had been asked._

 _"Get back to the camp," he ordered. "I have new troops to break in."_

 _"New troops?" the thief repeated, raising his eyebrows, striding over. "These are kids, not soldiers. What happened to the psychopaths that used to come through?"_

 _"You," snarled the commander, "are out of line, brat. What criminals the Grimleal decides to send are none of your business."_

 _"Oh, none of my business is it?" Gangrel growled, his face darkening. "Funny: I thought I was part of this battalion too. Looks like it wasn't enough to ruin me at age twelve, you now have to do it fifty-fold. They're going to die."_

 _"And you think that bothers me? You're all trash, good for nothing but thinning the Ylissean ranks. What does anyone care for a bunch of brats who got killed so long as Plegia wins this war? You're worthless, the whole lot of you."_

 _That was the last straw. The smoldering anger that the young man had been suppressing for three years suddenly erupted into a blaze of pure hatred. His heart pulsed heat into his veins and the world got a little blurry around the edges as the redhead's vision on Garvan became suddenly sharp._

 _"Worthless," he hissed, his tone pure venom. "You know what, high and mighty Commander Sir? I've just about had it with you. It's not enough that hundreds of people die every battle, no not even close: you make us go out to the battlefield while we're still bleeding from fresh injuries and strip the armor and weaponry from the newly dead; you insult us every day of our lives because we were brought here out of a jail cell; and you wish every day that you get lucky in the next battle and I'll finally roll over and die. Well, Commander, you're about to suffer a rather rude awakening. Everything you did to me might have ruined me, might had killed all those other men...but you also made me hate you back, as much as you hate me. But none of that can compare to what I'm feeling right now."_

 _Garvan shifted uncomfortably, taking hold of his axe handle. Never before had the boy spoken to him this way, never had such anger been pointed directly at him._

 _"Back off or I'll slay you here and now," he warned. Gangrel chuckled, sounding on the edge of insanity._

 _"Oh honey," the thief drawled, drawing his sword, "I would love to see you try."_

 _The Battalion Commander wasted no time in taking up his weapon and swinging it down at him. The younger man lightly skipped out of the way, his blade flashing in the sun._

 _"Oh lookie, a big bad dog that needs to be put down," he commented. "All bark...not a bit of bite left in him."_

 _Gangrel was grinning as he charged, beginning to trade blows with Garvan. The hatred was still burning inside him, but it had lightened into a sort of sick amusement. So what he was just a skinny, half-trained fifteen year-old? His opponent hadn't so much as lifted his axe in weeks and his skills were waning_ _—already he was bleeding from multiple injuries while the boy had none. Finally, the older man's legs gave out after several minutes of fighting, gasping for breath._

 _"Really, that's it?" Gangrel sneered, looking down at his furious commander with a wild smirk. "I'm almost disappointed."_

 _With an inarticulate roar, Garvan lurched to his feet, axe held high. The smaller redhead did not hesitate: lunging forward, he viciously drove his sword into the man's gut, grinning when he heard the choked cry from above him. Encouraged, he twisted the steel in even further, enjoying the sounds of pain that emanated from this man he hated so much. But soon the life faded from his opponent and the thief pulled his blade free, letting the fresh body hit the earth._

 _"So long," he remarked casually, sheathing his sword. The anger that had been heating his blood was fading and his hyperfocused vision began to open up again. It was then he realized two things: first, that he and Garvan had fought their way back into the center of the camp, and second, that there was a rather large crowd standing around him in complete silence._

* * *

The return from the clash with Rucol a very somber affair: after Gangrel had returned—hooded once more—he discovered that despite the brigand forces' lack of preparation dealing with those who knew how to defend themselves, they had still managed to kill no less than twenty of the fighting men and women. Of those that had survived—which was, thankfully, the majority of the townspeople—many were injured and the solitary doctor was quite overwhelmed. The Mad King and Ylissean tactician spent a large remainder of the afternoon helping tend to the weakened people, ensuring that each patient was as pain-free as possible.

The evening was spent as a large funeral for those that had died. Everyone was somber as the dead were each laid to rest in the earth one by one. Talah spoke of each of them and how they were good people who should not be remembered with sadness because they were dead, but with happiness because they had lived and had been a good friend to many. Rema had attended, finally coming out from where she and the others who hadn't wanted to fight had been hiding, and had shed tears upon hearing of the losses. Nisha too had cried for them at the funeral, but Gangrel waited until he could slip away after the final words had been said to allow grief for the wasted lives to overcome him for several minutes.

The celebration of the village's triumph over the bandits commenced that night in the town tavern. Good ale and food abounded, those who had fought eagerly sharing stories of their friends' triumphs and singing loud raucous songs. Nisha had been welcomed among them without hesitation and she joined in the festivities in her usual sensible manner, not going overboard on the alcohol as the others seemed prone to. The Mad King joined in some of the party, but mostly kept himself apart, watching everyone with a smile on his face.

To say he was proud of these villagers for winning the day would be an understatement: there wasn't a word to describe the mixture of relief and gladness he felt that they had managed to defend their home with so few casualties. Strange how he had known them for only a little more than three days and he was already so attached so deeply to them. Then again, he had done it before, all those years ago.

"Sir?"

Gangrel turned to see Talah at his side, looking uncertain.

"Would you please come with me?" the old soldier asked. "There's something I would like to say, but not here."

"Lead the way," the trickster prompted. He followed the older man out from the tavern and into the shadows between the houses. When the noise of the party had been left behind, Talah stopped and folded his arms.

"When you...when you revealed yourself to that bandit dastard Rucol, you gave me the shock of my life." He turned to face Gangrel, smiling faintly. "You probably don't remember me, but...I was one of the Condemned Battalion during the Ylissean Purge. I still remember seeing you, a mere boy, whipping all your men into shape and tending to them when they suffered any injury that you could heal. Today...it was like going back through time all over again."

The Mad King stayed silent. He hadn't realized that one of his soldiers from that terrible war had lived in this particular village...then again, time had blurred all but a few faces in his mind.

"I know you probably have many better things to be doing with your time than helping a tiny backwater village with a bandit problem, Sire," Talah continued, "but I am beyond grateful that you did. On behalf of all my friends and neighbors, I wanted to extend the proper thanks to you. And...you have my undying respect."

The soldier dropped to one knee, his hand twisted into a fist over his heart. Gangrel released a breath he hadn't realized he had begun to hold and brushed his hood back, letting his face be revealed in the moonlight. He then took Talah's upper arm in one hand and pulled him to his feet.

"I do not deserve your respect, Talah," the trickster said softly. "Not after what I did to this country and her people when I held rule over Plegia. I am a king no more."

"Perhaps you do not sit on the throne," the older man replied sagely, "but you are still our king. We, the people, chose you. And I think we chose rightly."

* * *

 _He was pacing. He didn't normally pace, but then again he wasn't normally this stressed._

 _When the thief had killed Garvan, he hadn't thought beyond anything except for his own satisfaction. Of course once he had realized he had an audience, everything had become a lot more complicated than indulging his own anger, the elephant in the room being the fact that the Condemned Battalion now had no commander._

 _Everyone had been staring at him. Staring at him as he stood over the corpse of their leader, blood staining him, marking him. They had moved out of his way when he had retreated to his tent. They were leaderless. He had doomed them._

 _And yet Gangrel would not_ _—_ _could not_ _—_ _feel regret._

 _The young man came to a stop and sighed. Taking his whetstone from his pocket, he drew his sword and sat down, setting about sharpening the blade and scraping off the dried blood that stained it. The dried liquid flaked off as he worked, creating a fine red dust the longer he kept at it. It was kind of strange, knowing that the blood belonged to a dead man, but it wasn't anything the young redhead wasn't used to already; he had killed many a man throughout his continuing survival story._

 _"Um, excuse me..."_

 _Gangrel twisted around towards the door of his tent and saw one of the other soldiers_ _—a mercenary by the name of Isembard who had always been fairly friendly._

 _"Come on in, pull up a bit of sand, I don't mind," the thief said absentmindedly. "Did you need something?"_

 _"Well, not me, per se," the older man replied, taking a seat besides the boy. "I mean, I don't need anything...it's, um, it's about this morning. See, the whole Battalion's been talking about it_ _—"_

 _"Quite the spectacle, wasn't it? 'Course it wasn't really much of a fight on his part to be honest."_

 _Isembard shrugged noncommittally in response to the interruption before he pressed on._

 _"In any case, we've all talked about it and...we'll need a new commander now that Garvan is...dead, and as the one who removed him from power, we've all come to the agreement that you should be the one to succeed him."_

 _The young redhead stopped tending to his sword and looked at the mercenary in confusion._

 _"Me?" he asked incredulously. "In case you all haven't noticed, I'm fifteen and hardly qualified to lead anyone, much less a segment of Plegia's army, even if we're all conscripts."_

 _"You've survived out here the longest," Isembard protested. "You know what you're doing out there on the battlefield. In any case, you'll probably be more fair to us than Garvan ever was and that's something we need right now."_

 _"And when people die?" Gangrel pressed. "Will everyone still back me then?"_

 _"We've weighed the risks as best we can. You're the only suitable candidate_ _—everyone else who volunteered was either ambitious or one of the psychos. Besides, it's not like you have to do it on your own; Garvan had people working on different things for him."_

 _"All the same," the thief grumbled, wiping his blade clean of any residual blood dust. He had suspected something like this would happen, but he had been hoping it wouldn't. For one thing, he had never been put in charge of anything in his life. For another, he wasn't even properly versed in how an army was supposed to work beyond the two opposing forces meeting and doing battle. Yet...he had killed Garvan. That gave him some sort of duty to take up the vacant leadership post, didn't it?_

 _"Give me the situation," he stated simply. When Isembard looked confused, he elaborated, "Who else, exactly, wants to replace Garvan? If there's someone more qualified than me, they can go ahead and take it; if there's not...then I'll do it."_

* * *

The next morning, the trio saddled up their horses and packed the fresh supplies that the town had given to them freely. As they rose out, the villagers all lined the road to see them off, shouting their thanks whenever they felt moved to do so. Rema was red-faced and thoroughly embarrassed at the attention while Nisha waved, saying "you are most very welcome". Gangrel just smiled as they left, raising his hand in farewell as they reached the end of the crowd thronging after them. When the village was little more than the distant shadows of houses, the trickster lowered his hood and allowed himself a small chuckle.

"Rema, I think you can stop blushing now," he quipped.

The tactician laughed as the diplomat tried—and failed—to look offended.

"Well in my defense," the golden-eyed woman protested, "I'm not used to being in the center spotlight, not like you two."

"I've actually experienced relatively very little fanfare," Nisha admitted. "Only when returning to Ylisstol after war have I ever been celebrated so much. That and when I returned after slaying Grima."

"And I haven't been applauded so since my early days as king," Gangrel added. "Not since I returned each of my Battalion to their homes after the Purge."

"I still remember when you came into my family's lands to return my cousin," Rema remarked. "He'd been improperly jailed and conscripted and ended up serving you. And the people living in the city celebrated all night long after you left for returning their children to them."

Gangrel tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. He too remembered those parties that had been thrown for him, when Plegia's citizens saw him as their hero instead of their tyrant. Those had been far simpler days then...far happier too, than those that followed.

* * *

 _A/N: ...and we're out! Just a little something here for y'all! I'll probably see your replies once I get back into the states. :)_


	18. Clashing

_A/N: KYAAAAAH! FIRE EMBLEM FATES! I FREAKING WANT IT!  
_

 _Course I want the special edition because I'm a sucker for art books (I love those things!) and nobody has them but scalpers selling them at 300% of the real price. DX On the other hand, I found a **gorgeous** cover of Azura's song by AmaLee. That I made a video for, incidentally. (The link is up on my profile.)_

 _There is not enough thanks out there for my reviewers! Deathnotegirl101! (D'aw, thank you! 3 ) Skye! (Nice to see you again!) Emozenith! (I titled the chapter "diverging" because it was the last part where present Gangrel and his younger self would be paralleling one another in their actions. And as for staying to fight in the war, the Grimleal is just one reason why he didn't just flee the country. With the in-game dialogue, I took away that Gangrel is both a patriot and very devoted to any cause he sets his mind to over all the conversations he can have. His love for his country is mostly what convinced him to stay and fight in the war and he became determined to see the whole dang thing through to the end. Sorry if that wasn't clear earlier.) And Brenna Snow! (You're about to find out what happened to change him so much, actually. )_

 _Enjoy! (I wrote this song while listening to Lorde's version of "Everybody Wants to Rule the World", especially the last section.)_

* * *

 _"Look Kir, I know we need more healers in our ranks, but I'm not sure if this is the way to go about it. I don't think I even have magic."_

 _Gangrel sat at a table in the mess tent, rubbing his forehead wearily. Beside him was an older man_ _—_ _a warrior_ _—_ _with wild brunette hair, one of the young commander's appointed advisers._

 _"If you had no magic, then you couldn't use the Levin Sword you've grown so partial to," Kir pointed out. "Reclassing is probably the best choice you have right now anyway: you've been a thief for so long that you aren't as versatile as those who've gone through the change and begun developing new skills."_

 _"I still don't like the idea of that magical seal or whatever it is messing with me: it's not normal."_

 _"No, but it is far faster than the discipline it would take to change your specialty if you went about it the non-magical way. And, like you keep saying, we can't afford wasted time."_

 _This had been a point of contention between Gangrel and his adviser for some time now_ _—the issue of whether or not the young man should consider becoming a trickster. There were very few healers or advanced class soldiers in the Battalion at all due to the scarcity of Master Seals available (most of which had been taken from the bodies of slain Ylisseans). The redhead was unsure about the whole thing as he hadn't had much experience with magic in general and such a change would require a lot of it. The seals were strange things, mysterious in how they worked though there was no denying they did. What was known was that it brought one's innate talents to the surface in the form of very specific types of skills, thereby allowing for a lot of diversity when it came to forming an army._

 _The young thief massaged the back of his neck as he glanced outside the tent doors, noting the position of the sun. It was later than he had thought. If the Grimleal were sending any new men to the Battalion, they would be arriving soon, the same time of every single day. Honestly, it was unclear whether the cultists even knew that there had been a change of leadership this far out from their gloomy halls and dark libraries._

 _"We'll discuss this later," he stated, getting to his feet and stretching. "I need to go see if there's any new recruits."_

 _One of the responsibilities that came with leading the Condemned Battalion was ensuring the new recruits fell in line while they adjusted to how things were run. It wasn't surprising, but a large number of those that came fresh from the prisons seemed to think a sixteen year old boy didn't know what he was doing when it came to the business of war. But they would all learn._

 _There was the usual stumbling about as the men all tried to gain their bearings and Gangrel took advantage of those first few moments to get a feel for what type of group this was. Not a single one were younger than twenty and most of them seemed fairly small-time as criminals went. A mercenary or two who had been caught at the wrong place by the wrong person, but there were a few who looked like rioters and blasphemers. Well, that was both good and bad._

 _"Right, I think that's enough time for all of you to clear your heads," the young man announced, putting his hands on his hips. The new recruits looked at him in slight confusion._

 _"Who are you supposed to be, kid?" one of them asked._

 _"I'm Gangrel," he replied simply. "Commander of this Battalion you've all been conscripted to."_

 _It didn't even take ten seconds for the next question to arise._

 _" You? A commander? You're kidding. There's no way you're qualified to lead men into battle."_

 _"Do you see any men in royal robes here to oversee this operation?" the thief shot back. "No. Out here in the sands, we measure qualifications by how long you survive against the Ylisseans."_

 _"And how much time do you have under your belt? A year?"_

 _"Four, actually. Nobody else comes close to that. Now if you would line up so I can get a half-decent look at you. Need to figure out what sort of weaponry you'll need and all those boring details."_

 _Really, it was textbook how these people all behaved: some of them moved to follow his directions, but several others stood their ground defiantly. Well, someone was going to be made an example of today._

 _"You," Gangrel stated before any of them could speak up, pointing at the largest of the dissenters. "Come over here. You don't believe me, don't think I am who I say I am, don't even consider the possibility that I could have earned my way up to being a commander...right?"_

 _"I have no interest in listening to a snot of a kid who thinks they can talk down to me just because there's a sword in their belt," the burly criminal snapped. "If you were a real man you'd_ _—"_

 _"Give you a weapon and let you try to put me in my place?" The redhead smirked as he moved to the weapons convoy that he kept nearby for instances such as this one. "Let me see...you prefer to use an axe, right?"_

 _An iron axe hit the sand at the new recruit's feet. Gangrel drew his sword and let it settle into his grip as his opponent picked up his weapon. And charge incoming in three...two...one..._

 _Right on cue, the man gave a war cry and rushed forward, axe held high over his head. The thief almost sighed in disappointment. Same old, same old. Couldn't he fight someone interesting for once? Just once._

 _Ten. Seconds. Flat. That's how long it took to disarm his opponent, to render him completely helpless. It was a little sad, but then again these men had never been to war before._

 _"I trust that will act as qualification enough," the young man remarked casually, sheathing his sword. "You may be older and physically stronger, but I am faster and more experienced in dealing with those who are trying to kill me. Besides, swords are far more maneuverable than axes anyway. Now if you had been using a lance, I would have been forced to be more careful since lances have better reach. Now will you get your butt off the sand and go get in line? As lax as I am about schedules, I would like to have you all armed before dinner."_

* * *

It was almost sunset and Gangrel was setting up his tent while Nisha was getting a fire going. Rema was checking her map to mark their position for the day and calculate where they would need to travel the next day. It was work that they always did in silence, but tonight it seemed was not going to follow that usual habit.

"Gangrel is that what I think it is?"

The trickster looked towards the tactician and followed where she was pointing to a distant spot that was partially lit by the dying sunlight. When he saw sent a hard stone into the pit of his stomach.

The Dragon's Table.

"Yes," he replied softly. "It is. The center of all Grimleal worship."

Rema looked up from her map curiously. The golden-eyed woman got to her feet and stared at the great building in something close to awe.

"I've never seen it before," she admitted. "Non-believers aren't permitted to enter this region unless they're accompanying royalty. Have you ever befen there, Nisha? As the tactician, you probably were there when the Exalt _—_ "

"Yes. I was there. I was the one who killed Validar."

Quiet descended like a hawk swooping in from the sky. Rema was staring at Nisha in shock at the admission. Gangrel looked between the two as the last light of day faded into dusk and then simply sighed.

"Yeah, you're standing in the presence of the woman who left Plegia leaderless...twice," the stated flatly. "Of course, she had good reason to...both times. Two wicked and corrupt leaders that were only on a path that would hurt this country...two madmen."

"You...you weren't always so bad," the diplomat protested. "And you just proved that you aren't the same as you were before. You saved that village. Besides, Validar wanted to destroy the world _—_ everybody knows that."

"When since Emmeryn fell has Plegia spoken well of me?" the Mad King challenged. "What good did I ever do for this country that didn't involve the slaughter of Ylisseans, of Feroxi, of anyone? How am I better than the Fell Priest that succeeded me?!"

"You gave us hope!"

The shout took Gangrel by surprise. Rema's hands were clenched into fists and her face was flushed with passionate emotion—a stark contrast to her usual collected and businesslike self.

"During the Purge, no one expected Plegia to survive! The only people that _could_ have were the Grimleal and did they care if the country fell? I grew up _knowing_ that our way of life was doomed! And then when the king died, we knew that was it...and then you came on the scene. You, a teenager who had been conscripted from the prison system, weren't going to give in without a fight. You convinced the Grimleal to participate in the war, helped bring about its end...the people told stories about you, the cultists believed that Grima had marked you for greatness...if you hadn't been worthy of your crown, then the people would have never chosen you to lead them."

The trickster's jaw tightened. Twice now had that been said to him, by people whose experience with him differed immensely. His chest was constricting uncomfortably, a stabbing sensation centering somewhere behind his rib cage. Unable to bear it, Gangrel jerked backwards and retreated from the light of the rising fire. He did not stop until he was alone with his thoughts under the dark sky.

He had said it to himself too many times over the course of this journey: he was no longer the boy who had once brought greatness to his homeland. He was a dog without a leash, a beast without a master. He had no home, no real place left in the world aside from standing by Nisha's side. Yet Rema and Talah both seemed to think that he wasn't what he was, lost in the memories of a younger, better version of himself.

He was not the good man he once had been. He was barely even human. And one thing was clear to him: he did not deserve to be here.

* * *

 _"Look, you can have this be easy, or you can have this be painful," Gangrel said calmly. "My men have their lives on the line here_ _—you understand how that works I presume."_

 _The Battalion Commander was in a valley between two dunes, some distance from the camp. No matter where in the dessert the branch of the army went, they always made certain they had a place like this, set apart from where the soldiers were resting. This was where they kept their prisoners of war, Ylisseans who survived by luck or on the young redhead's orders. Their newest catch was a pair: a lieutenant knight and his pegasus knight companion, now bound with their hands behind their backs. The force that they had been accompanying held supplies that were to be delivered to another enemy camp, but had been intercepted by the former prison inmates. These two were the only ones left._

 _"I'm not telling you where they are," the knight spat. This one was proving difficult to crack: already he had a black eye, a split lip and bruised ribs, yet he still resisted. The newly-reclassed trickster had to admire his courage, but unless he knew what sort of soldiers might be waiting among the sands_

 _Pain wasn't getting the man to talk, however...Gangrel's eyes fell upon the woman at his side._

 _"Well then I suppose we need to move on to our next round of games," the young man sighed. He strode over to the two prisoners and grabbed the young pegasus rider by the hair, dragging her forward._

 _The reaction was immediate._

 _"It's me you want! Don't you dare hurt her, you coward!"_

 _"You think I want to do this?" the young Plegian asked. "I don't really like hurting women, but she's taking up food and water and when you think about it, she really has no value to me. To you on the other hand..."_

 _Gangrel drew his dagger and rested the blade on the side of the prisoner's face. Bracing himself, the boy made a deep cut to begin his game._

 _There was a reason he kept the Ylisseans apart from his men: his form of extracting information could get particularly gruesome at times and the screams were never pleasant to the ears. The trickster had gotten used to the sounds over time, but the first cry of pain was always the worst_ _—it made his gut clench in momentary sympathy and feminine shrieks were especially hard for his resolve to bear. The other captives could barely stand it when the Battalion Commander came to visit, which was all part of the intention and it seemed that the pegasus knight had been the right target: after only five minutes, the rebellious man had conceded and had told all he knew of his allies' location and standing._

 _The young woman was shaking violently as Gangrel placed her on the sand to retrieve a staff he had kept nearby. None of the many cuts on her body were lethal but they were very painful and without magical healing would scar. The redhead was something of an expert on pain, where it hurt the most to be injured_ _—both in body and in mind. But he never left anyone he tortured go without repairing their wounds; that was what the Ylisseans did to their prisoners he knew, and he was not a Ylissean._

 _"May the gods send you to all of the seven hells," the knight hissed as the trickster knelt beside his victim, staff in hand._

 _"I'm already living in them," he replied sincerely, letting the magic flow into the hurt Ylissean's body, stitching her split skin shut and restoring the blood she had lost._

 _Footsteps sounded in the sand behind him and the teenager twisted around to see Isembard coming down one of the dunes. The mercenary took in the bloodstained prisoner without so much as a raised eyebrow as he approached his commander._

 _"Sir, the Grimleal have sent a messenger for you," he reported. "Apparently it's very urgent."_

 _"I'll be right there," Gangrel assured the older man, getting to his feet. "Have some water brought down here and give them all a drink. Let this woman have as much as she wants."_

 _The trickster brushed past his lieutenant and ascended the sand dune without another word, knowing his command would be carried out. At the present moment, his thoughts were occupied with the messenger who had supposedly come to see him. It was unusual for communications to happen in this way: normally there was a wyvern rider dispatched from another branch of the army to deliver the message verbally. This either meant that something important was happening...or he was in serious trouble._

 _The young dark mage_ _—probably only nineteen at most but not an inch over five foot two inches_ _—_ _was waiting outside the command tent in the camp, looking very irritated._

 _"Are you in charge here?" he asked Gangrel snappishly._

 _"Yeah yeah, don't get your cape in a twist," he replied boredly. "You have a message?"_

 _The cultist handed a sealed letter over and turned to leave only for the taller redhead to seize him by his shirt collar._

 _"Not so fast. I need you here for a minute."_

 _Gangrel pulled the surprised young man into his tent and dropped him onto a stool before his cluttered desk. Opening the letter, the teenage Battalion Commander sat down and pulled out the parchment._

 _"You can read, I presume?" he asked coolly._

 _"Of course I can read!" came the indignant reply._

 _"Good." Gangrel tossed the letter across the desk and put his feet up over all his official paperwork. "Read that for me."_

 _"You can't_ _—"_

 _"No I can't read, now please do so for me so you can hurry up and get out of my camp."_

 _The Grimleal teen scowled, but plucked up the sheet and grudgingly began to read it._

 _"To the current commander of the Condemned Battalion, by order of High General Ikholm and by invitation the Fell Priest Validar of the Grimleal, your presence is required at the Dragon's Table to discuss the recent, tragic fall of King Hardegin. You are to cease your current efforts to head off the Ylissean forces and relocate your forces closer to the rendezvous. If you do not arrive within a fortnight, magical extraction will be performed. Salutations, signatures, etc."_

 _The trickster had steepled his fingers while listening to the letter and when it was finished, he sighed and dropped his hands._

 _"Joy, meetings," he groaned. "Oh well. Tell your masters that my Battalion will be relinquishing our position on the front lines and be moving to this mentioned rendezvous. We'll be there before the allotted fortnight is up."_

 _He flicked his fingers in a dismissive manner and casually slouched in his seat. The tent flap opened and closed as the messenger stalked outside. Gangrel picked up the parchment that had been left behind lazily and looked at it without really seeing what was written there. Then he smirked to himself._

 _"Heh, 'relinquishing our position'_ _—s_ _o grown up."_

* * *

Dusk was fading into dark now and the two women were still sitting by the fire. The tactician was keeping an eye on the surrounding desert for her fiancé, but so far he hadn't returned.

"It's been almost two hours," the dark-haired woman murmured worriedly.

"He'll probably be gone for a little while longer," Rema sighed heavily. "I'll tell you one thing Nisha: I've known Gangrel for many years and I still haven't the slightest clue what goes on in that head of his. He used to do this all the time, during the early years of his reign: disappear off the face of the earth for hours on end and then return as though nothing happened."

"How long have you known him exactly?" Nisha asked, turning her attention to the golden-eyed diplomat. "The way you talk about him..."

"I knew of him for a long time before I actually met him," the Plegian replied, closing her eyes contemplatively. "I was...nine when I first heard of him. My father had taken me to the market in the nearby town and some women were gossiping about his battalion and his name came up. A few days later, I overheard the servants talking about him too, telling stories. After King Hardegin was killed in the Purge, the leaders of the largest factions of our army met at the Dragon's Table. Our forces were so decimated by then that Gangrel lead one of these five groups and ended up attending. As non-Grimleal are not allowed within the walls of that sanctuary, only rumors made it out as to what happened in that meeting...and the teenage boy present became a legend overnight."

"What kind of legend?"

The Ylissean tactician was leaning forward eagerly, her interest captured by Rema's account.

"Most of them were silly nonsensical tales, about how the boy had to be some kind of manipulative genius, or that he could communicate with ancient warriors who taught him strategy. But there was one that even the Grimleal accepted, the one that became the lasting story. Supposedly, when Gangrel was there, he just listened to the generals arguing for several hours before he stood up and gave them all a lecture about how stupidly they were all acting, grabbing for power when the Exalt and his followers threatened to destroy everyone in Plegia _._ Then, as he was talking, the Fell Priest saw that his eyes had changed from gold to red _—_ a sign of Grima's favor. Whatever really occurred, Validar pledged the cult's dark mages to serve under Gangrel when the meeting was over, which helped eventually to drive the enemy back until the Exalt died suddenly and the Ylisseans finally gave up their crusade."

Nisha was silent, chewing the inside of her lip as she digested the tale. She then smiled.

"I can see him doing that," she remarked. "Getting impatient and putting someone important in their place."

"You know him very well," the Plegian diplomat sighed. "You're very lucky: even when he was younger, he was a very difficult man to read. Not very trusting of others."

Rema shifted in her seat, looking uncertain for a moment before she locked eyes with the woman sitting across from her.

"Nisha...what happened to him? The last time I spoke to him before he began his war, he was still very much focused upon helping our people: he spent days at a time with Grimleal leaders, Validar in particular, trying to improve relations between the cultists and those who were not...Plegia was never more united as a people than when he sat on the throne. So what happened to him? He seems so...lost."

The dark-haired tactician stared into the flames as she contemplated her answer carefully, threading her fingers together under her chin.

"I can't presume to know everything about whatever occurred during those two years...nor is it my place to tell. I'll just say he suffered a very cruel awakening as to his situation in life," she finally decided. " And that realization...it affected him. Deeply."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He's convinced himself he's a monster _—_ an irredeemable beast. But the truth is...he's just too human. Too able to make mistakes...too able to hurt others."

The two women fell silent, lost in their own thoughts as the fire burned low and the sky sparkled with stars. Somewhere in the distance, a pack of sand wolves began to howl.

* * *

 _Four hours. Four. Freaking. Hours. Gangrel had come in expecting all these great generals of Plegia's army to have a game plan_ _—or even just an idea or two. But no, ever since the meeting had been called to order, the four older men had done nothing but try to play at politics. Over the course of their arguing, there were only two things the young redhead had learned._

 _First, King Hardegin had been murdered by a Ylissean assassin._

 _Second, the late king had no surviving children as a result of the war's brutality, thus resulting in a giant power vacuum._

 _There were currently five commanders of Plegia's military present in the chamber Validar had permitted them to use under his supervision: High General Ikholm who had been with the king's forces when the latter was killed; Count Arnaldus, a brutal disciplinarian whose success and survival was owed to the fear he inspired in his men; Generals Jenkin and Jesper, two twins whose skill at teamwork with their forces was renowned; and Gangrel himself, who was only present because the Condemned Battalion had grown in size to the point where it had become a brigade all but in name._

 _The trickster had tried to be patient_ _—he really had_ _—but honestly, he was bored out of his mind, which was only made worse by the awful aura that saturated every inch of the Dragon's Table. Who cared that they didn't have a single, central leader anymore? Someone just needed to take charge already? Was that so hard?!_

 _"There is not the option to surrender, Ikholm," Arnaldus snapped, slamming his hand on the table. "The Exalt is absolutely ruthless: he won't rest until Plegia herself is dead! You would have us all be executed if you took charge with this ludicrous plan of yours!"_

 _"His army is too powerful," the High General protested. "We'll be decimated even if we try to resist. Are you suicidal?"_

 _Gangrel sighed and pulled out a dagger from his belt, putting his feet up on the table and leaning his chair back on two legs. He idly used the reflection in the metal to look up at the arches of the ceiling and played with the angles to appease his weary mind._

 _"Oi, kid!" one of the twins_ _(Jesper?)_ _called._

 _"You wouldn't happen to be ignoring all of this, would you?" asked the other._

 _"Sorry, what was that?" the redhead replied sarcastically. "Oh never mind; it was just more politics. Shame."_

 _"This isn't a joking matter boy; this is the fate of our country we're discussing," the two said together indignantly._

 _"Then why haven't we discussed it yet, hmm?" Gangrel challenged. "So far, all I've heard is petty arguing about whose idea is worst and how stupid and shortsighted all your ideas are. Meanwhile villagers in the desert are being slaughtered for access to enough watering holes to keep the enemy going."_

 _That shut the room up instantly. The Fell Priest who was also seated at the table looked up from the dark tome he was reading in mind interest. Finally the center of attention, the trickster swung his feet off the table so he could stand. Glancing around the table, he leveled his dagger at all of them as he spoke._

 _"Look at all of you: squabbling like vultures over a carcass. Is that what's gonna save Plegia? Some grand plan full of ideals, headed by the stand-in king? A plan that none of the key players can agree on? Now, I might just be a silly child next to all your shiny armor and titles, but I know a thing or two about cooperation: if someone on your side isn't willing to play, you're going to lose the game."_

 _"This is no game, you simpleton,"_ _Arnaldus_ _snarled._

 _"Isn't it? Two sides, same goal, one winning, one losing. Sounds like a game to me. Only difference is that this one has lives on the line."_

 _There was suddenly a shift in atmosphere, as if the power that was all but humming in the air had just pulsed without warning, intensifying the situation. Gangrel folded his arms, tapping his index finger against the steel. A smirk slowly slid up his face, feeling a sensation of a misty darkness wrapping around his heart, filling him with a strange hunger that he couldn't remember feeling before._

 _"Now, I may be young," he drawled, "but I have killed as many Ylisseans as any one of my soldiers. How many does that number? A thousand? Two thousand? I don't even know." The young man began to stroll around the table, moving behind his fellow commanders as he continued to speak. "What about all of you? You who have the elite troops to hide behind, you who wait back as those of us who came out of the prisons hold the front line? How many men have you watched die by your hand? How many of your own men have died in your arms_ _—men whose names you knew_ _? Compared to me, you have seen nothing of this war. So I don't blame you for not understanding. But you...you're so pathetic at this."_

 _He came to a stop behind the chair of Count Arnaldus._

 _"You don't seem to realize what war really means at all. That when the world is as twisted as it is now that someone could just...stab you through the heart."_

 _To illustrate his point, Gangrel suddenly lunged and stabbed his dagger into the wood of the table, not even two centimeters from the Count's hand. He was pleased when everyone present_ _—excepting Validar, who was smirking_ _—jumped at the unexpected display of violence._

 _"And where will your pretty little plans and schemes get you then?" the teenager asked coolly, as though he had not just alarmed four fully grown men with little more than a gesture. He left his weapon lodged in the table as he circled back around to his seat, resting his arms across the back of it._

 _"Now, if I were going to fight a war against a bloodthirsty hoard of Ylisseans, I'd want equal support from my fellow commanders so that I wouldn't be on a suicide mission. No 'supreme general', no king_ _—there simply isn't time for the luxury."_

 _"You're mad," the Count spat, still very pale in the face for nearly having his hand impaled on the table._

 _"Perhaps I am," Gangel agreed. "After all, to fight Ylisse is a crazy proposition to fight with. But if I'm going down, I'm dragging all of those Naga worshipers into the pit with me. The least you can do is die like real men alongside your soldiers, not as cowards hiding in command tents and grand estates."_

 _Again, quiet reigned supreme. And then a dark chuckle emanated from the single Grimleal present which mounted into a full, shiver-inducing laugh. The Fel Priest then reigned in his humor as he turned to face where the trickster now stood. behind his chair._

 _"You have fire, boy," Validar said, his voice low and amused. "I can respect that. I presume...you have a course of action already planned out? After all, the enemy will advance forever at their dear leader's command."_

 _"Oh well that's the simple part." He braced his hands against the table as his scarlet eyes swept the room, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin as the darkness tightened around his heart. "We just...kill the Exalt."_

* * *

 _A/N: Y voila! There you go! Another chapter done, another mystery to chew on! Send in what you think happened there at the end, I would love to see what y'all come up with! (And if you caught any of the references I scattered about. There are three major ones.)_

 _Ciao! ~Dem0nLight_


	19. Arriving

_A/N: Hello again! So, I apologize for having such a crazy long hiatus but school wrapped up and I was full of many different feelings. I also apologize in advance for this crappy but very long chapter—it was written in chunks, mostly while burning the midnight oil. This was originally gonna be much longer, but I got bored of waiting to publish it, so part 2 of this series of events will be coming when it comes._

 _So Love for my long-suffering reviewers: Emozenith (D'aw...thank you! I actually considered writing about the reclassing, but now its just a half-written blub on my phone. And as for the not-reading, I figured since he grew up in the slums, he wouldn't have access to an education. And if you're planning on going back and looking for any mention of his eye color, don't bother; I purposely didn't mention it in the flashbacks.) Texx (I'm not sure what second war you're talking about, but when Rema is referring to before Gangrel started conspiring to get the Fire Emblem was after the Ylisseans attempted to destroy Plegia 15 years before Awakening. It took several years before he became the in-game Mad King in my headcannon and Rema knew him for a short time before he began trying to attack Ylisse. If you're still confused, drop me a line.) and Ashflight1699 (Hey gurl! Where's that SW ficlet you were doing? ;) I'm just teasing!)_

* * *

The next day was one of the quietest days that the trio of travelers had experienced on their journey since the very beginning. Gangrel hadn't returned before both Nisha and Rema had gone to bed and had been found packing everything up early in the morning—almost before sunrise. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, the trickster hadn't slept at all the night before, but he didn't seem angry with either of them as the women had feared. Instead he was just silently distant and only responded to questions with nods or shakes of his head.

When they had been riding for quite some time, it became clear exactly how exhausted the Mad King really was: he was almost nodding off in the saddle and was only still on because he kept jerking himself back into reality. Finally, Nisha pulled her own mount to a stop and jumped off, catching Gangrel's horse by the bridle.

"You're going to fall off again if you keep this up," she scolded him lightly. "Let me up; you can rest behind me."

The redhead looked ready to protest, but he was cut off by a huge yawn that seemed to convince him otherwise and he nodded tiredly. The tactician mounted as her fiance moved farther back to make room. As she situated herself, Gangrel wrapped his arms around her middle and rested his head on her shoulder. It wasn't even five minutes later that the former king was fast asleep and he did not awaken until they had reached their destination: the outskirts of Plegia's capital.

Nisha roused him as they were passing through the city walls and he reluctantly sat up to stretch before he realized where they were and quickly pulled up the hood of his cloak. There weren't many people moving in and out of the gate, so there was no real reaction to the arrival of the three aside from a few foul looks thrown at Rema—clearly recognized as a noble by her richly colored, un-patched clothes—and some curious glances at the purple-cloaked Ylissean and the concealed man behind her. The Mad King was glad that no one had recognized him on the way in and was gracious in helping water the horses at a nearby fountain while Rema and Nisha stretched their sore muscles.

"I can pull some strings to get you in to see the Fell Priest at the castle later tonight," the golden-eyed woman was saying as she sat down on the edge of the fountain, stroking her drinking mount. "Once he sees you, then it'll get complicated—"

"Who said I wanted to see the Regent?" Gangrel interrupted, rotating his shoulders to work out a kink. "Your reports are one thing, but I want to get the lay of the land, a feel for the situation the people are in before I get involved in any politics."

Truth be told, this had been his plan since the very beginning: he was in no mood to see anyone important...especially since any person currently in power would know exactly who he was on sight. He wasn't sure he could handle the judgement they would surely pass on him at the moment...not after the deep sense of self-loathing that still remained from last night.

Rema frowned, but Nisha saved him by speaking up.

"Well since you're not going to do any meetings soon, what do you have in mind until then? We will have to talk to the Regent sooner or later."

"Well," the trickster said calmly, "Rema needs to return to her duties in the court and I think she should do so; we can manage in the city for a few days until we need to meet with the Fell Priest."

"You have a place to stay?" the diplomat asked.

"I have an idea," Gangrel replied wryly. "You'll have to take our horses with you though: we won't have room to keep them."

Rema made a face that was probably supposed to display irritation, but her furrowed brow betrayed her concern and fear. The Mad King dared to clap a hand to her shoulder and attempt a faint smile.

"Take care of yourself," he said softly. "And don't worry: we'll see you in a week at the latest. Until then."

He stepped back and Nisha immediately took the opening to hug the other woman and whisper something to her—probably a promise to make sure that her fiance wouldn't get them in any trouble. When they parted, Rema quickly set about preparing to take all three horses with her as the tactician and trickster took their rucksacks from their mounts. As she rode away, the golden-eyed woman raised her hand in farewell.

"May the gods protect you," she called before she was gone. Nisha smiled before she turned to her lover, her expression expectant.

"So where are we going?" she asked.

"One of the best places to gauge the situation we came here to solve," the redhead replied. "Follow me."

Taking her hand, Gangrel lead the dark-haired woman further into the city. Soon they were in the midst of the crowd, pushing their way through. The nostalgia of the simple act of making his way through the streets hit him hard and an smile tugged at his lips. He could remember so clearly how it had felt, to be a boy and so small in comparison to this big city.

The pair finally made it our of the giant flow of people and into a more open area, which was easily recognized as one of the many market squares the capital had to support its people.

"This used to be my favorite place to people-watch," the trickster admitted, sitting on top of a short wall near a fruit stall, Nisha joining him. "Besides, where money changes hands is where the most proof of distress will be. The more bargaining goes between buyer and seller, the more likely it is that money is tight and that trade is down as Rema told us."

"Did you not believe her before?" The tactician seemed surprised to think that such a thing were possible, for them to have come this far without Gangrel really thinking his country could be in such a terrible state that the diplomat had described.

"It's not that I _didn't_ believe her...I just, considering her political position and relationship with me...it's complicated."

"Then explain."

The former monarch chuckled at her simple response and rubbed the back of his neck.

"I was only a kid when I lived in this part of the city, but I still remember seeing people trying to save as much of their gold as possible in case the Ylisseans made this far into Plegia so they could flee across the sea to Valm," he sighed. "The whole city was terrified, but it wasn't because we didn't have the means to evacuate the country if it became necessary...it was because the country was divided from within. The Grimleal were taking everything from the common people in an act of self-preservation and it was leaving half the people in dire straits. Rema, as a representative of the poorer classes and as a non-believer herself would be focusing on the problem as it affects the people that are in her kind of situation but without the benefit of a noble house to support them. Besides, she knows I'd be more willing to return if the Grimleal were the ones causing the problem to begin with. That's why I wanted to see what's going on for myself. In any case...I also wanted to confirm the feeling I got when we came here."

"What feeling?"

"Fear. Everyone here is afraid and not just because of a loss in international relations—I can almost smell it in the air. I need to see what gossip I can overhear to locate the source of those feelings...and to push me into doing what needs to be done should that be necessary."

Nisha took up her fiance's hand and scooted closer to him. Gangrel smirked and leaned over to kiss her temple before he settled back in to watching the people in the marketplace.

It was strange how one could be invisible in plain sight: people just spoke their minds with no regard for who might be around them if they were convinced they weren't being listened in on. Even a suspiciously hooded man sitting next to a woman dressed in the insignia of the Grimleal.

It didn't take long to see what exactly was going on in the city either: a merchant casually remarked to one of his customers that he couldn't blame a young woman who had bartered down the price of some darkly colored fabric and golden thread at a nearby booth—plenty of non-believers nowadays were going into hiding from the Grimleal by wearing symbols of the cult in plain sight so they would not be taken off to the sacrificial alters to the Fell Dragon. Two older women had been gossiping about the Regent, saying how they had heard he never came out of the royal library and let the Dragon's Council have free reign over the country, which was why the Grimleal had begun to take hoards of food and other supplies from the people into their sanctuaries and leaving the country in a state of ruin and rationing. And most telling of all, when an entourage of Grimleal sorcerers and dark mages came through the square on their way to some unknown destination, everyone fell quiet and bowed their heads in what could be seen as respect, but was clearly done out of worry about what the consequences might be if they didn't.

Nisha now clearly understood what the Mad King had been describing before: Plegia was indeed in a poor state, but not from a severe lack of resources. It was because the country was not unified as it had been in the years after Gangrel's removal from power and now those that still worshiped the Fell Dragon had turned on those who refused to do so. As the small market came back to life after the Grimleal disappeared, Gangrel got to his feet and held out a hand to help the tactician down from the wall.

"I think we've gotten what we came for," he said softly. "Come on."

The trickster then led his fiancee out of the square and down a side street, pulling out his Levin Sword pendant and leaving it in plain sight as they moved farther away from the public areas of the city.

"Where are we going?" Nisha asked, gripping the silver sword on her belt nervously as they passed an alleyway where a group of people sat hunched in the shadows.

"Somewhere I know we'll be able to spend the night," the redhead replied. "It'll be a tad bit cramped, but its safe as can be in this part of the city."

They walked further into what was very apparently one of the poorer districts when suddenly a man, also in a cloak though his was ragged and stained, stepped in their way in the narrow street, holding aloft a dagger.

"There's a toll for going down this road," he growled. "Leave your valuables on the ground in front of you and no one gets hurt."

"Gangrel," Nisha breathed, her knuckles white on the hilt of her sword. To her immense surprise, the trickster placed his hand atop hers, preventing her from drawing the weapon.

"One lone mugger doesn't frighten me," he said evenly.

"Then lucky for you, because I didn't come alone," their attacker spat. He whistled sharply between his teeth and from the surrounding alleyways several young men and woman, all in varying states of dirtiness, all carrying weapons. They formed a loose circle around the pair in a clear threat of attack.

"Now _this_ ," Gangrel admitted, "is a bit more intimidating."

* * *

 _It was almost noon and Gangrel had organized the Condemned Battalion in ranks before the rune sigil on the edge of their camp. Today was a monumental day. Today—for the first time in living memory—the forces of the Grimleal would be joining with Plegia's military in an attempt to push back the invaders to their shared homeland._

 _The flash of purple light was far more intense than usual, but other than that, there was no major difference between the arrival of the cultists and any other recruits they might have gotten. As it turned out, it was the leader of the Dragon's Council that had escorted these forces, his scarlet eyes gleaming in contrast to his ashy skin._

 _"Validar," the younger man drawled. "Forgive me if I don't curtsy, but we both have work to do, I presume."_

 _"That we do indeed, young one," the Fell Priest replied, smirking sinisterly. "I shall leave you to instruct these men and women as you see fit. But I will need to warn you: chosen by Grima or not, they will be reluctant to play nice with unbelievers."_

 _The trickster had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. That stupid legend, making this a far bigger event than it needed to be._

 _"They will do as they're told or they will be dealt with as traitors," Gangrel replied through clenched teeth. "There is no room for disunity in any force I command."_

 _"Well said," Validar intoned softly. "You'll be a fine general yet."_

 _With that parting statement, the tall priest turned on his heel and returned to the sigil, vanishing in another, smaller flash of light. The trickster gave a brief, rude hand gesture at the spot the Grimleal leader had been, not caring who saw him; this political activity always put him in a bad mood. He especially hated the way Validar acted so superior and in control. Like he was the king himself. Psh, as if!_

 _The young man folded his arms and strode over to the Grimleal forces, looking them over. None of them seemed physically fit for battle and almost all of them were very pale from spending a large amount of their time indoors, which looked very odd considering their naturally Plegian complexion._

 _"So all of you do magic?" he asked boredly. "Only magic? We don't have any of that here_ _—or rather, we didn't until now_ _. That'll be quite the adjustment, I think."_

 _No one answered him, and that was just fine_ _—having to deal with commentary was something Gangrel would not have the patience for right now. Turning his back on them, he strode back up the path to the camp, his men parting for him and falling back into line. The dark mages and sorcerers seemed confused at just being abandoned and slowly, suspiciously, began to follow after him, minding their distance from the other soldiers in what was clear disdain._

 _"General," one of them finally dared to speak aloud, "what will our living arrangements be while encamped?"_

 _"Oh, took you long enough to ask," the teenager chuckled. "That's easy enough: you'll be sharing with everyone else."_

 _The uproar was immediate and came from both groups and lasted for well over twenty minutes. The Grimleal were disgusted at the thought of being in such close quarters of the current Battalion Soldiers and expressed it quite vehemently. The former convicts were of a similar opinion and asked if there was any way the cultists could have somewhere else to be_ _—they even suggested segregating the camp. The redheaded trickster just listened to their complaints without looking at them, waiting for it to get out of their systems so he could finally be heard. When it eventually quieted down, he spread his arms in a shrug._

 _"If you didn't bring your own tents and supplies, then you will have to make do with what we have," he told the magic users simply. The men of the Battalion all fell silent at once, recognizing the truth of his statement and realizing it would be pointless to argue. But the Grimleal hadn't yet learned the way this fighting force was run._

 _"You should have been aware that we were to arrive soon and should have accommodated us!" one of the younger dark mages said accusatorially. "These conditions are unacceptable for men fighting on behalf of the Fell Dragon!"_

 _The air suddenly felt thick with tension._

 _"Are you challenging me?" Gangrel asked his tone dark. He slowly twisted back around, but his face held no anger. Instead he looked as though he would relish putting down some insubordination, his scarlet eyes looking almost hungry. The young cultist took a startled step back as the young Commander spread his arms again and mock-bowed._

 _"By all means," he drawled, "fire at will."_

 _The fear in their eyes was a delicious sight to behold. He, little Gangrel, had power. Power over these men, their fates, their lives. And it thrilled him to the core to be so thoroughly in control._

 _These men, even the proud Grimleal forces, would not turn on him: they were too afraid to, too superstitious about their god to dare challenge someone who might have the dragon's blessing. And until they learned to trust and respect his decisions, he would use that fear to his advantage. This Battalion would carve a bloody swath through the Ylissean ranks._

* * *

Gangrel had to admit that there were times when his smart mouth got him into serious trouble. Of course, it usually was only himself who was getting in trouble. So when the muggers had moved in and managed to separate him from Nisha whilst keeping him in the center of the ring of people, he realized that the situation would be far more difficult to get out of than he initially thought.

"Pay the toll and no one has to get hurt, traveler," the apparent leader of the thieves stated a second time. The trickster glanced to the side where he saw his fiancee pinned against a brick wall, a knife to her throat. Cooperation was looking better and better every second. He weighed his options carefully before he slowly nodded and loosened his sword belt.

The thief's shrewd gaze followed Gangrel's every movement as he laid his Levin Sword down, dropped his small pouch of gold and then reached for the pendant around his neck. Then the robber's eyes widened.

"Where did you get that?" he growled, pointing at the small metal shape.

"I've had it for years," the hooded redhead replied. "Why does it matter to you?"

"Show us your face," the mugger orderly lowly. Gangrel spared another glance at the captured tactician before he slowly took the edge of his hood and pushed it back off his head.

The whole circle fell silent all at once, the only sound that of their breathing. The leader had frozen, completely rigid with shock. Then he slowly began to approach until he was directly before the now-unmasked man, his expression growing blank. His fist suddenly whipped out and caught the Mad King right on the cheekbone, knocking him off balance and sending him to the ground. The trickster tentatively felt the point of impact and chuckled.

"I guess I deserved that one," he remarked.

The thief then stepped forward and offered his hand, which Gangrel took to get back on his feet. Once the redhead was righted, the two men embraced.

"G, you are the biggest jerk in all of Plegia," the mugger laughed, taking a moment to look over the taller man affectionately. "You look well for soneone who's been dead for three years."

"And I see the syndicate has expanded," the former monarch shot back. "Speaking of, would you mind—?"

"Ah, yes, so sorry."

After a wave of their leader's hand, the two thieves who had been pining Nisha released her and the tactician moved to stand beside her lover, raising her eyebrow in an expectant, you-better-explain-this-right-now-or-you-are-so-dead kind of expression.

"Nisha, I would like you to meet Cato," the Mad King said smiling. "When I was growing up here in the slums, he was like a little brother to me. Cato, this is Nisha, as you obviously heard."

"Ah, yes," the younger man replied, a tad bit awkward. "Sorry about the whole almost-mugging business. Just...trying to make a living and you two looked as though you could afford to lighten your loads some."

The dark-haired woman still looked wary, but she took Gangrel's hand and allowed herself to relax as she nodded in greeting. The trickster raised their entwined palms to press a brief kiss onto the back of hers before he began to speak again.

"Cato, I need to ask a favor. I've been trying to gauge the situation here in Plegia and I wanted to talk to Tia. Can you take us to her?"

"You know what she'll do if she sees you, right?" Cato laughed. "Well, it's your funeral. Come one."

With a gesture towards the other thieves, the younger man set off further into the alleyway, his companions melting away to go find someone else to gather valuables from. The former king and Ylissean tactician followed after.

"Who's Tia?" Nisha asked suspiciously.

"She helped form a group of kids here in the slums called the Syndicate. Taught me everything I needed to know about thievery. 'Course, she really just wanted to help us learn skills to get us out of these conditions. Helped make connections with people to get them into apprenticeships, got a couple of kids adopted by people who would take care of 'em...still, she had to feed us all somehow, so for those who were willing and skilled enough she taught us how to steal. She still doing that, Cato?"

"Not as actively, but she's been getting more kids out these past several years now that some of the people she helped get out are all grown up and can take apprentices for their own. Remember Kira? Her shop's been doing so well she employed some other seamstresses from the Syndicate and Asgare hit the high places with his smithy and is training a few other kids. But most of the old crew is still doing most of the stealing. Tia prefers it that way since it means fewer little ones having to get involved."

They walked in silence for a few minutes as the condition of the buildings around them further deteriorated. Nisha tightened her grip of her fiance's hand and leaned forward.

"Gangrel...I trust you, but this isn't sitting right with me," she whispered. "I don't like this."

"I've known Tia for years," he replied softly. "She won't turn us away. Besides, do you really think I would let anyone hurt you?"

"Well we _did_ almost get mugged back there..."

"That doesn't count—you didn't actually get hurt nor were we in any real danger. I just needed someone from the Syndicate to show themselves so I could get a guaranteed safe passage to the Hub."

The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes, seeming a bit more at ease than before. Gangrel nudged her playfully only to get a light push back, which made him smile.

"Welp, here we are," Cato said, interrupting the moment. The pair of lovers stopped and looked at the building before them. It was old and crumbling, none of the windows filled in, but the roof was clearly intact and carefully maintained judging off all the wooden patch jobs. Colored scarves were tied to every protruding piece, giving the place a sense of liveliness.

"You've redecorated," the trickster remarked. "There didn't used to be so much...color."

"Yeah. One of the kids' ideas. There's quite a few artists among us now and it's been tough getting them proper work—"

The thief was cut off as a cluster of young children came running out of the open door and surrounded him, all shouting his name excitedly and prattling on as kids their age were wont to do. The tactician and her lover stood off to the side, watching as Cato tried to give each youngster the proper attention without neglecting any of the others.

"Alright, get away from him you miscreants," a new voice called from the doorway. "Let Cat breathe for a few seconds. Can't you see he's got guests?"

The newcomer turned out to be a woman with brilliant blonde hair and dark eyes. Gangrel straightebed up when he saw her, brows raised in shock.

"Lumi?" he asked incredulously. "Is that you?"

The blonde glanced over and studied the Mad King's features in slight confusion before recognition crossed her face.

"G? What...How?"

"Long story," was the short answer. "You've... Well, you've grown."

"Yes, I have. You know how Tia's going to react to you coming back, right?"

"Lumi, who is that?" one of the children interrupted, a small boy with wild black hair.

"His name is Gangrel," she replied. "He used to be one of the Syndicate... he left the slums close to twenty years ago, when I was a little girl."

"He looks scary," one of the other kids commented. "His eyes are red."

Gangrel shifted uncomfortably, not liking being the center of such attention. While he doubted any of the children present remembered his reign, the thought of being judged—no matter how innocent the intention—made him want to turn away, to hide himself from their stares. These children were likely orphans, their parents taken away by the turmoil he had stirred in Plegia with his crusade, a turmoil that still continued now with the Grimleal's newfound control. Nisha seemed to sense his sudden shift in mood and squeezed his hand, trying to give him some comfort. The thief standing off to the side noticed the interaction and immediately responded.

"Okay, don't stare at the visitor," Cato chastised the kids, putting a hand on the trickster's shoulder. "He's gotta go in and talk to Tia."

There was a chorus of disappointed "awwww" s as the children broke up their group to let the trio pass through to the door. The dark-haired woman smiled faintly as she looked at the little ones surrounding them, her former concern about trusting Cato and the Syndicate seeming to fall away as she looked at their honest faces. As soon as they crossed the threshold of the building, Gangrel let out a heavy sigh, trying to push his sudden bout of guilt aside. He had a job to do.

"Cato, is Tia's office still in the same place?" he dared ask once his voice was steady enough.

"Yeah, come on."

They moved across the open floor towards a small area sectioned off by a curtain. As their host pulled it to the side, the trickster and tactician ducked inside.

* * *

 _Gangrel was doing his best to hold onto his temper and not just order his men to attack. This was a peaceful meeting he kept reminding himself. When a Ylissean general holding a small platoon of captured soldiers had learned that there were prisoners from his own country in the grasp of the opposing commander, he had sent a letter (that Gangrel had read aloud to him) requesting a trade for their respective countrymen._

 _Under most circumstances, the trade should have been simple enough: prisoner for prisoner. Except there was one tiny anomaly with this situation: the Condemned Battalion had under their watch more than twice the number of Ylissean soldiers than the enemy currently held. This meant there needed to be negotiations. Civil negotiations._

 _"Listen, the simple fact of the matter is, unless you can give me something of actual value alongside your prisoners of war, I will not agree," the young trickster stated boredly, resting his chin in his hand. "Those men will hardly be of any use to me for quite some time considering that you've been starving them to save your own resources."_

 _"I hardly doubt that my own soldiers have been treated any differently," the brunette Great Knight replied from across the desk where they sat. "Hence why I cannot give you anything more than your own men; I'll need to nurse more than four hundred men back to health."_

 _"Actually," Gangrel drawled, "your Ylisseans are in near-perfect condition. I happen to have been a decent human being and allowed them both food and water. If I accepted your terms, then you could very well turn around and slaughter my guard and I without anyone being able to stop you."_

 _There was a rustling by the entrance of the tent and one of the Grimleal Gangrel had brought along with him as an honor guard of sorts poked his head inside._

 _"Sir, will this be taking much longer? The prisoners are getting...restless."_

 _"Almost there Marius," he replied. "Just a minute or two more."_

 _The redhead continued to project his image of boredom as the sorcerer left, but all the while the first stirrings of excitement were manifesting in his chest. It was almost time. He was the one in power here: the Ylisseans could do nothing to take his prisoners of war and when these negotiations ultimately failed, he would take the captured Plegians back with a little bit of violence. It would be easy once the trap was sprung. In any case, four hundred Ylisseans meant nothing to him in grander scheme of this war; they were nothing but pawns for Gangrel to use or dispose of at his almighty whim._

 _The now-familiar darkness in and around his heart made him smile sadistically._

 _"What do you find so funny, Plegian?" the Great Knight asked gruffly. "We have not yet reached an agreement "_

 _"Oh I'm well aware," the trickster drawled. "And I know for a fact we never will. I've grown weary of this game. And I think my men are feeling the same."_

 _Alarm crossed the Ylissean commander's face and he jolted to his feet only to find a sharpened dagger under his chin._

 _"Illusion spells are most useful for hiding a small force of soldiers, are they not?" Gangrel asked innocently. "I'd imagine your honor guard has found themselves quite outmatched."_

 _The Great Knight's face paled as several screams ran outside of the tent. The trickster chuckled darkly._

 _"I'm surprised you didn't see this coming or try to launch an ambush of your own," he remarked. "Then again, that just makes my job easier. Another day, another body on the floor."_

 _"H-how?" the Ylissean commander gasped out. "How could you do this? You're...you're just a boy, no older than my own son but you're so much... angrier. T-this country has destroyed you...made you into a monster."_

 _"Plegia isn't what destroyed me, nor did the influence of Grima as you're trying to imply," the young man replied, his voice cold. "It was your country that forced mine to war. It was you and your mad Exalt that did this to me...moulded me into a creature just as brutal as you and your armies, a beast to match you and drive you back."_

 _Having said his piece, it was all too easy to let his wrist follow through with its intended motion and slice open the enemy commander's neck. The brunette gasped loudly before he collapsed, coughing as his blood spattered onto the sand. His last words were broken as he whispered them hoarsely to someone who wasn't there._

 _"F-Fre...rick...I'm s-sorry..."_

 _Gangrel paid no heed to the dying man at his feet. He instead looked at his newly stained blade with slight irritation before he left the tent, abandoning the fresh corpse in the sand where he lay._

 _The scavenging sand wolves would feast tonight._

* * *

 _A/N: So, here y'all go. Hope you enjoyed! :D_


	20. Descending

_A/N: Hey. Hey. Guess what day it is. Guess. Okay, I gave you a chance. It's the 28th of June. **"NIGHT EVERLASTING" IS A YEAR OLD TODAY!**_

 _*Streamers and confetti go everywhere*_

 _Anyway, to all my followers and reviewers, I give out warm hugs and virtual cakes! **Emozenith!** (Well, there's been a lot to cover in the flashbacks considering that it roughly will cover everything from his childhood into the first several years into his reign. If I consolidated it into a separate fic, then I would definitely spend more time doing slice of life moments, but it's kinda organized like a highlights reel of the major events in his life that shaped him. There  is an end goal in mind for those flashbacks though, we just aren't quite there yet.) **Brenna Snow!** (Hey there! So I was going to go into this a little later in flashback form, but the Syndicate did keep some contact with Gangrel once he was on the throne, but he hasn't seen them in person for a really long time.) And **Texx!** (Yeah, that death has been something I've been toying with for a while. I like to think that Gangrel and Frederick are about the same age and are something like foils to one another in their behavior [Gangrel usually reacts emotionally, Frederick doesn't, etc.}. And about your Nisha complaint, I understand your frustration, but I justified that course of action due to the fact that they were outnumbered pretty severely and Gangrel was actually preventing her from drawing her weapon. Otherwise, like I pointed out to T-bone Grady with Olivia and the brigands incident in chapter four, she would have annihilated them.)_

 _Anyway, enjoy my treat to you! :D_

* * *

Tia's office was still exactly as Gangrel remembered it being: a small corner of the main building with a window looking out into the street that let the sunlight in on the shabby, barely-propped-up table that she used as a desk. But it was the woman who was seated at that desk that struck him as completely unfamiliar for all of two seconds.

The trickster supposed that he should have known that Tia was getting older—it had been more than twenty years since he had seen her in person—but it still came somewhat as a shock. Her dark skin that had once been smooth was now folded in on itself into countless wrinkles, her raven hair now the color of starlight. The crescent scar at the corner of her eye was still there, but it had faded and was hardly visible. All at once the reality of just how much time had passed just hit him and the former king was left entirely speechless.

When she looked up, her eyes immediately locked onto him and she raised a single brow. The sass in that one gesture along made Gangrel feel like a child again getting a playful scolding.

"Your majesty," she said dryly. "It's been a while."

"Too long, my lady," he managed to reply, fighting a smile. She really hadn't changed, had she? "It's an absolute travesty."

"Hmmmmm," Tia hummed, her eyes landing on Nisha and then the engagement ring on her finger. "I would speak to you alone, if that is permissible."

"Nisha, would you mind waiting with Cato outside," the Mad King requested. "Cat, perhaps you can get some lodging set up with her."

"That seems reasonable," the thief agreed. "We'll give you a minute."

The tactician grabbed hold of Gangrel's hand and gave it a farewell squeeze before she followed her guide on the way out. The curtain dropped, closing the pair off from the rest of the world. The redhead turned back to the older woman and she gave him a small wave to come forward. Obediently, he came closer only to feel a sting as her palm whipped across his face.

"That's what you get for not coming to visit," she said sternly. "And for forgetting to tell me that you're not dead."

"Ow," the trickster complained lightly. "Right, well I was a tad bit busy—"

"Shut up."

Tia shoved him, but this time the action was playful. She then in a very motherly fashion ran her hand over his hair in a long stroke.

"Who did you let cut your hair?" she asked teasingly. "You look ridiculous."

"I did it myself...with a knife. Don't remember if I had a mirror or not. I thought it looked okay though."

"Clearly you need your eyes checked, my boy," Tia laughed. "All the same, I don't think you've realized exactly how much I've missed this...Sit down, and tell me what you've been up to these past years while we all mourned you."

Gangrel sighed, feeling the guilt he knew she had been trying to instill in him as he knelt beside the woman who had all but raised him after his brother's passing. He then proceeded to tell her all of what had happened to him. He told her how he had been taken as a slave to Zanth and the Dread Pirates, what they had done to him and how he had killed them. He told her how he had met Chrom and the Shepherds, how he had come to know Nisha and love her...how he had lost her—and subsequently almost lost himself—before she came back. And, after a moment's hesitation, he confessed his purpose for returning to Plegia and how he wanted to help his people while staying out of the politics of the Grimleal and Noble houses.

Tia listened quietly, sometimes nodding along or smiling when appropriate. When he had finished, she gently took his hand.

"G," she said sincerely. "You are an idiot."

Of all the responses she could have given, that on was by far the least expected. Gangrel actually flinched when she said it, more as a reflex than because the words hurt. But she was far from finished.

"I'll start with the thing that's glaringly obvious: thinking that you could come back to Plegia without getting involved. G, in what world do you think that the nobles and Grimleal would just ignore the fact that you've come back from the dead? Despite all that you've done to this country that hurt it, you'd still be a formidable force in the realm of politics considering that you're the only one in Plegia who knows what it means to rule. You're a genuine threat to the Fell Priest and anyone else who would seek the throne."

"But—"" the trickster started to protest but Tia wasn't done, as demonstrated by the hand she clapped over his mouth.

"Don't interrupt. There's also the matter of this woman you've fallen for. Now, I may not know the details of your relationship with her, but I have heard very little out of you about her in this conversation; it's all been about you. Perhaps it's just because I wanted the full story and you had to sum everything up, but I expected you to be paying far more attention to her needs and wants than your own. If the attention is solely on you, then the relationship is unbalanced and unhealthy for the both of you."

 _She wanted me to do this_ , Gangrel longed to protest. _This whole endeavor was basically her idea from the start. She wanted me to face this problem I made and fix it._

But the Mad King knew that those were just rationalizations. He really _hadn't_ been paying as much attention to his beloved tactician as he should, too worried about his own reservations about returning to his homeland and dealing with his own deep-rooted fears.

"And lastly, there's your whole attitude about coming back home," Tia continued with a weary sigh. "Tell me, when is the last time you looked in the mirror and not thought a single negative thing about yourself?"

She didn't remove her hand from his mouth, so the redhead simply stared at her, ignoring—or rather, trying and failing to ignore—the wave of self-loathing that washed over him at the thought of his own image looking back at him in the glass.

"You see, that's the stupidest thing I've seen of you yet," the old woman chastised. "Have you gone blind or something? Forgotten what you _do_ have rather than what you don't? It doesn't matter if the glass is half empty or half full—either way, you're not going to go thirsty. Perhaps you screwed up in the past, but that's all in another time, somewhere you can't go back to. You have the chance to try again and...you're missing out. You won't gain a single thing from this misery you keep putting yourself through."

"But I deserve it," Gangrel mumbled from under her palm. "It's my penance for what I've done."

"There's a method to my madness," Tia replied calmly. "And believe me when I tell you that there's no logic in continuing to hate yourself. It will only keep you from your full potential in helping this country recover from this silent civil war."

She slowly uncovered his mouth, though her hand did linger on his cheek as she looked over his face thoughtfully.

"Heh, you've grown up so," she murmured. "Sometimes it's difficult to believe that you ever really became the king."

"I wasn't much of a ruler," he replied softly.

"Not towards the end, no," Tia agreed. "But you know...now that I've seen you again, you've given me some hope that perhaps you really can fix up this mess. I mean, you've survived being a slave, helped slay the Fell Dragon and convinced the Ylissean tactician to marry you. Perhaps—if you can find it in your heart to truly rededicate yourself to Plegia—you could be king again."

"You are the third person to tell me that," the trickster remarked.

"Well, you know the saying: twice is a coincidence, thrice is fate...or a conspiracy."

The pair laughed together briefly before Tia tugged the tall redhead into a soft embrace, which caught Gangrel off guard until he managed to slowly return the gesture.

"I'm glad you decided to come back, my boy," she whispered in his ear. "I hope you're going to make me proud."

"I hope so too," he murmured back.

They stayed like that for a moment longer before the hug ended and the Mad King rose to his feet.

"Would you send your tactician in here when you meet up with her again?" Tia requested, settling back down into a comfortable position. "I would like to speak with her as well. Get to know her a little bit."

"Of course. I'm sure she'd enjoy talking with you. It will take her a minute or two to warm up to you though."

"Good; she's got a good head on her shoulders. Don't spin it too much, you flirt."

The trickster laughed as he ducked outside. It had been a long time since he had felt so...light. It was good to let go of the negative emotions for a minute to laugh with an old friend. He knew they would come back, of course, but he chose not to think on that. For now, he was content.

* * *

 _The young commander leaned back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, feeling restless. Nothing exciting had happened with the Battalion since reclaiming the Plegian hostages two weeks ago. It had initially been nice to take a break, but now Gangrel was consumed with a terrible frustration that he couldn't escape no matter what he did. Everything was so...mundane._

 _The Grimleal had finally decided to stop complaining about their lodging and had instead focused their energy into perfecting new deadly curses they could sling at the Ylisseans. The soldiers they had reclaimed were making a good recovery. All was well._

 _Except it wasn't._

 _Gangrel was bored and it was shortening his already volatile temper. He was absolutely ruthless in training his men and more likely than ever to fly into a rage for the smallest reasons. His men seemed to understand this and quietly accepted the abuse, knowing he would come out of it once the action started up again and would apologize by allowing them to get away with more infractions against the camp rules than usual, provided they didn't make a habit of it._

 _Gods above, holding the line was the most infuriating job of all time!_

 _Overcome with a spike of ill temper, the trickster took out one of his daggers and flung it at a tentpole, only feeling the faintest flicker of pride when it lodged into the place he had aimed for. Swinging his legs off the desk and standing, he stalked outside and mounted one of the dunes surrounding the valley camp. He looked over the empty sands and irritably spit out a few curses._

 _"Hey! Are you going to send food and water down here anytime soon?"_

 _Gangrel looked down in faint surprise at the voice and realized that the dune he had climbed was in fact the one that separated the main camp from the Ylissean soldiers that his forces had taken prisoner. The man who had spoken up was a frequent complainer, often cursing those who were assigned to watch over the group._

 _"You know, you might want to watch your tone of voice there," he remarked casually, slowly descending the large hill of sand. "I believe there's a saying that goes something like 'don't bite the hand that feeds you'? In any case, I see you're currently unguarded, so I'd assume he went to go get you your rations. No need to be so ungrateful."_

 _"Heh, you wouldn't know ungrateful if it bit you on the bum," the prisoner sassed back. "I can be a hundred times worse than this."_

 _Normally, the young redhead was amused by this man's attitude, but he was already in such a foul mood that it was only serving to worsen it even further._

 _"If I were you, I wouldn't antagonize the commander of the entire battalion," he advised through a forced smirk and clenched teeth. "I could forbid my men to feed you."_

 _"If you were going to do it, then you would have already, big shot."_

 _I wish I could cut his tongue_ _out , Gangrel thought viciously._

 _Who says I can't_ _another voice whispered. The thought was a little surprising but as the teenager considered the idea, that familiar dark feeling came into his chest, soothing anger into a wicked sort of delight. He crouched in front of the Ylissean, his expression amused._

 _"You have no idea what I could do to you," the young commander remarked. He then grabbed the older an by the hair and pulled him closer, like they were going to share a secret. "I could kill you right here and now and nobody would be able to do anything about it 'cause they're all tied up at the moment."_

 _"Really? And what would you even use to do it? That sword's only used for mag—"_

 _The rest of the word was lost in a choking sound as a dagger slid with deadly precision into the man's ribs. It was small and not one that Gangrel often used in combat, but it was sufficient to end somebody's life. The dark sense of satisfaction was magnified as the trickster cruelly twisted the blade to widen the already deep wound._

 _"Aw, does that hurt?" he asked mockingly in a sweet tone. His voice slipped into a lower tone as he forced the weapon a little bit further in. "I hope it does you piece of filth."_

 _The Ylissean was struggling to breath through the pain, but soon enough that futile motion stopped and he slumped over dead onto the sand. There were cries of alarm from the other prisoners as Gangrel stood up, sheathing the bloody knife._

 _"You monster!" someone screamed. The redhead tilted his head back and laughed wildly._

 _"Gyahahahaha! That I am!" he agreed. "Don't worry though—you're next. And you know, I'm a bit curious now...how deep can my Levin sword cut into flesh?"_

* * *

The lodging that Cato had showed the pair of travellers to was modest, but it was plenty sufficient for a one-night stay. There was a large pile of blankets instead of a bed, but it could accommodate them both quite comfortably. Nisha had initially seemed a little uncomfortable at the idea of sharing a room but after Gangrel had offered to sleep on the bare floor, she decided she could bear sharing the sleeping space with her fiancé. It was a very _big_ pile of blankets after all.

They had gone to bed after a nice dinner with the members of the Syndicate. Many of the children had been curious about the strange new adults at the table. Many had been afraid that Nisha was a Grimleal after seeing the pattern of her cloak, but warmed up to her when she explained that she wasn't part of the cult. The young ones had been fascinated with her stories of the Shepherds, even just little escapades that had occurred on a daily basis. Gangrel had been a source of curiosity for a different reason. Very few of them actually recognized his name as that of the former king and they wouldn't stop pestering him with questions about how he had gotten out of the slums. The trickster gave vague answers that often bordered on fantastical and were more to amuse the children than to answer their questions. He had admitted to being a pirate for a few years, which left many of the young boys in awe. But after the sun set and most of the food was gone, the littler4 ones were rounded up and escorted to their own sleeping areas, leaving just the adults to talk into the night.

When Nisha and Gangrel had finally retired, it was already quite late, but the latter ended up staying wide awake for some time afterward, reflecting on all that had happened that day _—_ especially the talk he'd had with Tia _—_ until the dark-haired tactician had sleepily told him that she could hear him thinking too hard and that it was keeping her up.

It was in the early hours of the morning when it happened. Footsteps raced up and down there Hall and half-whispered conversation came from all around. Gangrel woke up, bleary and confused, and stumbled out into the hall to see what was going on. When he asked, he noticed the glance that passed between the adults outside and instantly felt far more awake.

"What happened?" he pressed urgently. Lumi sighed heavily and finally spoke up, though her words were very soft.

"It's Tia. She...she passed away just now on her sleep."

All was silent for a moment before a single hollow laugh escaped the Mad King's equally empty chest

"Well," he remarked quietly, his voice on the verge of breaking, "Tia always did have _quite_ the sense of timing."

He chuckled, but the sound caught in his throat as the reality of what he had just learned slowly sank in. And then, all at once...there was too much emotion. Anger, regret, sadness, helplessness, they all blurred together into a sensation that could only be described as grief.

The trickster stumbled back into the room and fell on his knees by the still-sleeping woman in the blankets. He pulled her into an embrace as he began to weep bitterly. She stirred in his arms before breathing out his name.

"Gangrel? What are you doing up? What's wrong?"

"It's Tia," he managed hoarsely after a few moments. "She's dead."

Nisha froze in shock, but when she recovered, she put her own arms around her lover, tightly clinging to his shirt.

"S-she said she knew she wasn't long for this world...b-but I never thought...and we had just met and I knew we were going to be great friends and..."

Then she too broke into tears. The pair just sat on their makeshift bed for a long time afterward, mourning the woman who had passed together. But somehow, amidst the pain and devastation of their shared loss, Gangrel managed to feel something other than the terrible emotions that sought to drown him. He felt _determination_. To do what Tia had wished for him to do. Her final wish, in a sense.

And he was not going to let her down again.

* * *

 _Isembard stared in absolute horror at what he was witnessing. He had come to deliver the evening meal to the prisoners only to find that more than half of them were lying dead in pools of their own blood. Those who had survived were cowering from a truly horrific looking Gangrel, covered in blood up to his elbows and several other large stains dotting his chest and face. He seemed to be... conversing with the silent survivors, baiting them to see if they would respond to his antagonizing words._

 _When the bloodied trickster looked up and caught sight of the mercenary, he smiled brightly and waved him over, as if he hadn't just brutally murdered over a hundred incapacitated Ylisseans._

 _"You're just in time," he said to Isembard once he came within earshot. "We're going to need these good men and women moved to another spot before nightfall. Ah, and I see you've brought them a feast! Double rations for everyone I think! Lucky dastards."_

 _"S-sir," older man stuttered, very alarmed at his commander's oddly good mood. "What would you like done with the b-bodies?"_

 _"Eh, we'll leave them to the sand wolves. I think it's about time we move to a new campground anyway. Spread the word, will you?"_

 _And with that parting statement and a friendly clap on the shoulder, Gangrel casually sauntered back up the sand dune and into the camp, humming cheerfully to himself. He seemed almost oblivious to the the stains on his hands and the impact he was having on his luitenant. Isembard stared after the young man in a mixture of shock, disgust and worry._

 _What was this war doing to this young man?_

* * *

 _A/N: Ta-daaaaah!_


	21. Action

_A/N: Do you hear that? That is the sound of the plot finally moving forward! Sorry it took me so long, but work comes first when tuition needs to be paid. Just a short little something to make some actual progress in the story!_

 _And thanks so much to my two reviewers from last time! **Emozenith**! (Honestly, though lots of re-reading, I found that Nisha has become a more minor character than she deserves, but depression and anxiety are very selfish mental states, so I feel like the self-loathing was inhibiting Gangrel from treater her as an equal partner. She's gonna get a bigger role in the story soon after this. Gangrel in the flashback was actually kinda touch and go for a while because I knew he'd have to fall off the deep end sooner or later and was just worried about to what extent. And as for Tia, I basically created her character to be used as a sacrifice that would motivate Gangrel out of his funk. Glad to know the sudden-ness really came across well I was hoping to take people by surprise. All I can say for the future of this story is that I expect another 10-ish chapters before it'll be done.) And **Texx**! (What can I say? Writers are serial killers. And I'm glad you like the flashbacks! Those can be tough to write sometimes. And as for the boredom, well medieval campaigns took years so there could be weeks of lull between weeks of fighting. It could get very tedious indeed.)_

* * *

Gangrel felt very strange when he woke up. It was like being both stone-heavy and feather-light at the same time, hollow yet hopeful. It took him several minutes to remember why he felt this way, and when he did, it hit him like a slap in the face.

Tia. Tia was dead. That's why he felt so heavy.

But he had a purpose now. And that's why he felt hope.

The Mad King looked down and saw Nisha snuggled tightly to his chest, breathing deeply. They must have fallen asleep while embracing one another last night while they grieved. The redhead smiled faintly as he cupped her cheek, admiring his lover's peaceful expression. He had forgotten what it felt like almost, these sweet moments where he could truly appreciate how lucky he was to have this beautiful creature in his arms. He could hardly believe he'd been so foolish to forget that he wasn't alone, that he had a partner who would stick by him always, no matter what anyone else thought.

Gods, Nisha deserved so much better than him. She really did.

"Tactician," he murmured, brushing some hair out of her face. "Wake up. We have things to do today."

She stirred before looking up at him with sleepy eyes. Her face then went bright red.

"Um," she breathed, "Did we fall asleep like this?"

"Yes," he replied, smiling, "though I don't think it was intentional. Either way, we need to get up. I have some plans for today that really can't wait."

"What kind of plans?" Nisha asked curiously, her embarrassment fading alongside her blush.

"Well, I was thinking last night, and I've decided: I want to go see the Regent today."

"But yesterday you said—"

"I know what I said yesterday," the Mad King interrupted softly. "But considering the events of last night and some things that were said between me and Tia, I've changed my mind. In any case, today would be an ideal day to make contact; it's a common practice for the current secular ruler to meet with the people and hear their bequests. If I'm right, then today could be the ideal time to meet the Regent. Besides, if we do it this way, we don't have to go through the channels Rema offered to reach him."

"What's wrong with her channels?"

"It would involve a lot of political favors and honestly, I would prefer if I didn't owe any bureaucrats—they have a nasty habit of over-estimating the value of a debt owed them and what it means to have it repaid."

Nisha fell silent, her fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

"What about Cato? And Lumi and all the others here? Do you think they'll understand us rushing off like this? Especially after Tia passing away last night..."

The question was soft, as if his beloved were afraid to ask such a thing. Gangrel released one hand from around her and caught her slim fingers with his own, pulling her hand around so he could hold it tightly.

"Nisha," he said fervently, matching her volume, "I'm going to be honest with you: I don't know how they'll react. The last time I left without telling anyone where I was going, I was gone for almost twenty years and came back changed into this unrecognizable state. They might worry. Or they might accept that I'm not the boy who used to live with them and I have priorities that don't line up with their own. It's been so long I'm surprised that they were so welcoming to me...I did leave them here while I lived in the luxury of a palace after all. But whatever they think, I need to do this today or my determination might not last and I'll back down again. I need to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak."

The dark-haired woman nodded before she snuggled her face into the crook of her fiancé's neck.

"I just don't want you to do anything that you might regret," she breathed.

I know," he replied. "I don't want to either."

* * *

 _Gangrel was humming happily to himself as he performed his afternoon ritual of maintaining his weapons. Nobody dared bother him when he retreated to his tent very much anymore—not after the incident with the Ylissean prisoners and the time when he had thrown the knife in his grasp at someone who had entered without announcing themselves at the door (they were very lucky it had been just a warning shot and hadn't held the intent to kill)._

 _Thing had changed in the Condemned Battalion in the past several days: the word had spread about the cruel massacre he had held on the edge of camp and the soldiers now approached him with an air of wariness though the Grimleal seemed to approve of the slaughter almost. They still obeyed him without complaint, but it was always edged with concern, as if they were unsure whether or not he would turn on them next. They even called him by a different name behind his back which had quickly become such a popular moniker that villagers were more likely to recognize him by the title than his actual name._

 _To be honest, the young trickster was amused by the whole situation. The whole transition from being respected to outrightly feared was just the next step to come after his ever-darkening demeanor and sense of humor. This war had changed him to the point where it hardly felt like more than an intense game of chess. True, he still counted the lives of his men as a valuable, limited resource that was to ultimately be preserved, but it was getting far too easy to order risky maneuvers if they could guarantee victory. And killing, that was second nature at this point. No longer did the young man suffer visions of the men and women's faces as he had during the early time of war. Instead he brushed aside the violence casually and took as many lives as he pleased. The fighting was the greatest thrill of this entire experience and there was no way that Gangrel was going to miss that. The only thing that came close was the occasional torture of new Ylissean prisoners. Oh how he loved feeling so ultimately in control._

 _"Sir? I bring word from the Dragon's Table."  
_

 _The voice belonged to Habbo Rehn, one of the Grimleal who had been designated as a messenger from the Fell Priest. Validar had sent many messages through this man regarding the progress on his part of the plan to slay the invading Exalt, but most of the reports regarded complications involved with the dark spells they were weaving which did not interest the redhead in the slightest._

 _"Unless the message says that the curse is ready for full use, you had better be ready to duck," he replied coolly. "I don't want to hear another monologue about how the direction of the magic is being finicky because they don't have the blood of the intended target."_

 _"Actually sir...that's it exactly. Master Validar sends word that the curse has finally been bound to the weapon and has sent the parcel for you to deal with at your leisure."_

 _That gave the trickster pause. Setting down his whetstone and blade, he moved to the entrance and lifted the flap. He gave the small, slightly sunburned mage a critical once-over with his scarlet eyes before he held out his hand._

 _"Well," he said with a smirk. "Let's see what he's prepared for me then."_

* * *

The streets were already bustling outside of the palace gates despite the early hour. The tactician and trickster stood hand in hand by the main entrance, waiting for a guard to either allow or reject their entry. They had inquired if the Regent would be opening his throne room to supplicants and had yet to receive an answer, so they waited, hoods up, while the remaining soldiers kept a close eye on them to ensure they didn't cause trouble.

There hadn't been nearly as much trouble getting away from the syndicate as they had expected: Cato had promised to cover for them so long as they swore to return to the old building by nightfall—they needed to arrange Tia's burial and wanted Gangrel's help with what would probably be a modest ceremony as they didn't have a lot of gold at their disposal. So they had left without saying farewell to anyone, each holding some dried fruit that Lumi insisted be their breakfast.

"What if the Regent refuses to see supplicants?" Nisha murmured as they waited.

"Then we'll send a message to Rema and ask for her help. No matter how much I may loathe the politics involved, I insist on seeing the Fell Priest today," the former king hissed back. "I've been too hesitant for too long."

The guard who had left to check returned a moment later and called down that the Regent was seeing people in the throne room, but only if they had an appointment. Gangrel frowned upon hearing the news.

"That's new," he muttered before he called up, "And what if we wish to impart news to the Regent? I have information that he might very well want to hear."

The guard conferred with his fellows before shouting down "You can pass the message to me and I will ensure that the Regent gets it."

"Not possible, I'm afraid. I must deliver the message directly to Regent myself or not at all."

There was a long silence as the soldiers discussed this. The Mad King stood ramrod straight as he mentally urged them to take his bluff. Entering the palace under false pretenses was no small crime, but he was desperate enough to try.

"Very well," the spokesperson called. The heavy gate slowly began to creak open and Gangrel released a heavy breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He felt Nisha do the same beside him and he reached out to capture her hand in his as they passed through the barrier separating the castle from the rest of the city.

The pair quickly entered through the arching doors and came into the rich gold and purple furnished entry hall where a servant inquired as to their business before guiding them to the doors of the throne room.

"Also, if I could ask the two of you to remove your hoods," the servant said before allowing them inside. "The Regent is insistent upon seeing the faces of all who stand before him."

The trickster nodded and pulled the fabric off the top of his head, his fiancée doing the same. He heard the man's sharp inhalation of breath, but did not react other than to duck his head and brace himself for the door to be opened and to face this at last.

The doors swung open and Gangrel calmly strode in.

The room held a considerable number of people conferring by a small seat to the side of the large golden throne. All were dressed in robes of the Geimleal, making it impossible for the Regent to be distinguished from among them. Upon hearing the door, they all quieted and turned to see who it was that had interrupted their meeting. And then silence descended across the entire large hall. Then from the center of the cluster, a younger man with dark curls broke free of the group, the silver circlet on his brow marking him as the Regent.

The two locked eyes and the redhead inhaled sharply.

"Raines?" he breathed.

"Gangrel?" the Regent said in disbelief. "Is that really...?"

The Geimleal sorcerer slowly stepped forward as the Mad King stayed frozen in place.

"Ha! It _is_ you!" The trickster was suddenly snared in a tight embrace. "Gangrel!"

"Raines!" Gangrel replied, a little breathless at how hard he'd been grabbed.

The two men began to laugh as they held each other at arm's length, talking over one another as the room stayed harshly silent.

"Look at you!" Gangrel exclaimed. "Validar's heir!"

"Well just look at you! What on earth are you dressed as?" the Regent laughed, taking in the former monarch's worn cloak and travelling clothes. This time it was the elder of the two who initiated the embrace as he joined in the mirth.

"Ah Raines," he sighed. "I never expected to see you again."

"Ah, pardon me, Lord Raines," a nasally voice interrupted. The two men parted and the dark-haired Regent faced a short, squat Grimleal priest who wore a simpering expression. "Must we remind you that to openly associate with a non-beleiver and a _traitor_ such as this man is a straight road to losing the people's confidence in you. No doubt the kingdom would be _furious_ at this display, even if he is your—"

"That is enough out of you, Khymen," Raines said sternly. "I shall treat Gangrel and any guest he brings as I wish. You and the others are dismissed."

The Grimleal seemed shocked at the command, but reluctantly slunk from the room regardless. Many of them gave hateful glares at the former king as they exited, making it clear that even if their ruler accepted his presence, they most certainly did not. When the room was clear, the Regent turned back to the trickster and tactician.

"So terribly sorry about that," he apologized. "I suppose it goes without saying that they still despise you, Gangrel."

"It's good you didn't let them bully you like you used to. I suppose outranking them probably helps."

"Enough about them—we can discuss politics later," Raines replied, waving the comment aside, though he looked a little uncomfortable. "We're neglecting the fine young woman you've brought along with you—she no doubt hasn't a clue what's going on."

"Ah yes. Raines, this is my fiancée Nisha," Gangrel introduced. "She's the tactician of Ylisse and co-commander of the Shepherds. Nisha, this is Raines, my blood brother and Validar's favorite nephew."

* * *

 _A/N: Willing to bet none of y'all saw that coming. But hey, the final stage of this fic has begun now that Gangrel stopping being a lazy bum and wandering about Plegia throwing a pity party. I probably won't update in a little while, but please leave a review letting me know what you thought and your predictions for what'll happen next! Until I write again, thanks for reading!_


	22. Confrontation

_A/N: Heeeeeeeey! I'm not dead! Just the opposite in fact: I've been hard at work writing fics...just not under this name. That's right_ _—I have another account. If any of you, my dear readers, happen to be in the Undertale fandom, you may have seen my most recent works. But this story is not dead! It's just very sluggish because I haven't been working too especially hard on it. Just enough to keep my documents from disappearing. But enough blather!  
_

 _Here are some shoutouts to my ever-lovely reviewers! **Emozenith!** (TBH, looking at the chapter after having not worked on it, I do kinda see the "plot device" accusation working. But oh well, I knew I didn't need another OC constantly complicating the story after I just got rid of Rema. Anyway, I'm hoping the chapter was action-y enough for you! Just kicking everything into gear and getting the ball rolling. TBH, the flashback timeline is way clearer in my mind as opposed to the actual plot, but I'll try to keep them balanced in quality.) **Texx!** (Two reviews?! Wow, I'm so lucky! And as for Nisha's family...I have a few headcanons about that...;) And it's interesting you bring up "there can only be one". I actually never thought of that as being canon, I just wanted to write out an idea for why there would be two avatar models with the same name but differing genders. The headcanon about them traveling with their mom carries over here, but I don't imagine Nisha had a twin brother—the idea only holds up with the default avatars. But that's a cool idea of having my previous HC make its way here since I wrote "there can only be one" so long ago.) **And Call Me Taco**! (I have no intention of letting this die unfinished, my friend; it's just been a long time since I was active in this fandom after Fates came out and I played it to death. Maybe a future crossover someday is in the works? I apparently love the sketchy, flirty type of husbandos in Fire Emblem. (I married Niles my first playthrough) Anyway, I am back, this will move forward, but the speed might be slow.)  
_

 _And without further ado, let's get back into it!_

* * *

"I have a cousin?!" Nisha gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth a second later. Gangrel chuckled at the open expression on her face and Raines cracked a smile.

"Yes, I'm your cousin," he replied. "Though Validar never truly spent much time with his family, he did have one. But I think we should retire to somewhere more private and comfortable for this discussion. Would you like to join me for tea?"

"Oh gods, you're still addicted to that stuff?" the trickster laughed. "Even so, I think I'll join you. Nisha?"

"Oh yes, I'm coming along. I would be insane not to. Do you know how long I've gone without knowing anything about my background? There's no way I'm missing out on a chance to learn everything I can."

The trio shared in a moment of chuckling before the Regent lead them from the throne room and down the richly furnished halls until they stood at a pair of simple dark wooden doors that when pushed open revealed a fairly large seating room with tables in front of an orate window. After Raines summoned and sent away a servant with an order for tea, he chose a seat by the window and gestured for his guests to sit.

"I must say, it's an absolute relief that I've some friendly company for once," the Fell Priest admitted. "Being in command of an entire country's affairs is a lonely line of work. I don't see how you or Uncle Validar did it without having regular breakdowns."

"Well, your Uncle always was very self-reliant," Gangrel replied as he took his seat after pulling on out for his fiancee. "Didn't even take advice from his own fellow councilors. Not to mention he seemed just fine being on his own all the time."

"Don't I know it," Raines sighed. "I probably spent more time being sent from his presence than I actually spent in it, never mind that I was the only one of his nieces and nephews that he could actually stand."

"So you are not an only child?" Nisha pressed excitedly. "Or you have other cousins?"

"Validar had three sisters—only one of which is still alive now. He was the second child and his elder sister never actually believed in the Grimleal faith. She kept it hidden very well until she met her husband and fled with him into the desert. They still live in a village full of non-believers with their three children. It's very lucky that my Uncle never wanted to waste the effort of hunting her down or else she wouldn't have lived as long as she has. The elder of his two younger sisters was my mother and she died in childbirth when I was only five years old. His youngest sister was insanely devout and served as a hierophant. She was killed in battle some years ago and I never knew her personally. She had a son, but he and I were never very close and he was consumed when Grima was resurrected."

A servant knocked at the door before entering with a tea tray, which was set on the table with a quick bow before they retreated. Raines took the pot and poured out three cups and offered them to the couple seated across from him.

"So how did you meet Gangrel then?" the tactician continued questioning, taking a sip from her teacup politely.

"It's an ancient Grimleal custom when a new line of non-believer kings begins," the Regent replied. "The Plegian King retains the rights to choose who he will wed, so marriages with Grimleal brides can never be completely assured. As a result, the practice of having the new king form a blood bond with a Grimleal who is about his age sprang up. The theory goes that if he has a friend among those who keep the faith, then the king will look more favorably upon those who belong to the cult. But that is not always the case."

"I remember when I had to choose my blood brother," the Mad King remarked. "The most 'worthy' among the young Grimleal were presented to me and I was allowed to have a private conversation with each of them before deciding. Raines was the only one who would crack a smile at my jokes that wasn't totally fake. I didn't exactly have a lot of choice in the matter, but I know I chose right with him. You would not _believe_ the trouble we got into."

"You mean the trouble that _you_ would get the both of us in," the sorcerer corrected. "I hardly ever did anything that would cause trouble. You would just drag me along and make me watch your pranks."

The two men shared a grin with one another that spoke volumes as to the closeness of their relationship. It was the sort of look that actual brothers would have when sharing a inside joke. But then Raines became more serious and faced the dark-haired tactician again.

"Did we satiate your curiosity, or would you perhaps like to have a more detailed discussion about some of the specifics?" he asked.

"I will always have questions about this sort of thing," Nisha replied with a fond smile. "But I think we should hold off for a time—Gangrel did come here to speak with you about more serious matters. Perhaps we can arrange another time to meet and chat."

"I will give you some enchanted parchment that will be able to send me personal messages," the Regent concluded. "But I agree that we must focus upon what you came for. Gangrel?"

The trickster nodded and got to his feet, He jerked his head towards the balcony.

"Let's talk from there. There's a thing or two that I think you need to hear."

* * *

 _The morning was cool considering the village was in the middle of the desert. But no one was in much mood to enjoy the weather, least of all the locals. The air might have been pleasant temperature-wise, but it was also thick with tension. Last night, during the darkest hours when the moon was down, a force of several thousand Plegian soldiers had moved in to surround the Ylissean-occupied town. Truth be told, everyone had been expecting a conflict to have occurred by now, but it was still not a welcome realization for the innocent townsfolk._

 _So far, no violence had occurred despite the overhanging threat of it, but the invaders had all taken up arms and stood ready for battle, scattered among the homes and shops, some hidden to act as ambushes or reinforcements if necessary._

 _It had been late morning when a messenger had come from the Plegian forces, clad in the robes of the Grimleal. The guards had escorted him to the outside of the inn where the commander of the enemy was supposed to be staying, but there things had reached a bit of a standstill. It seemed the man in charge was refusing to see the messenger due to Grima's insignia being present on his cloak. While initially undeterred, the Plegian had eventually left before he came straight back to the same spot he had vacated, this time followed by a young man with fiery hair and clad in the simple set of light armor reserved for the trickster class. The younger soldier looked up at the inn, cupped his hands around his mouth and then began to shout in the general direction of the building._

 _"I know you're in there! I know you can hear me!" the young redhead called in a sing-song tone. "So how about you come out and settle this fight like a man, would you? I mean, I hear a lot of things, but I never thought his holiness the Exalt would be a gutless dastard!"_

 _The Ylissean soldiers immediately drew their weapons at the mocking words, but the trickster just snickered giddily. Suddenly the door to the inn swung open and a tall, broad man stepped through the door. He was dressed in shining golden armor and wore a cape that was a royal blue and decorated with the Ylissean Brand. His face was dark with a scowl and he loomed over the two Plegians, all but sparking with hatred._

 _"Who are you that dares to insult me?" the man growled. "I would know your name before I take your head to make an example of you."_

 _"Oh, so he shows his face. At last," the red-eyed youth sneered. "We've come to parley with you, your excellence. And don't bother taking my head; I'm a bit attached to it."_

 _"You did not answer me," the Exalt snarled. "Speak now or you shall learn that only one man is needed to carry a message to your commander."_

 _"Oh my! How terribly rude," the trickster drawled. "You Ylisseans must not keep up with the local folk tales if you couldn't recognize me. My name is Gangrel, but I do believe that they've been calling me the Mad General recently, the Wild One, Grima's Chosen Savior, take your pick; I'm not really into the whole title business."_

 _It seemed his words struck a chord with the invaders: the soldiers all looked far more anxious and some even looked on the edge of flight. Their leader was shocked at first, but then his face became contemplative._

 _"You are bold to face me directly, boy," he commented, suspicions sneaking into his tone. "I could so very easily slay you and leave your forces scattered and confused."_

 _"Well, you certainly could," Gangrel agreed with a smirk. "Of course then you'd fall prey to half a dozen fatal curses that have been set upon me to kill my killer. I may be young, but I'm far from stupid, your worship."_

 _Everyone was watching the two commanders with bated breath. It was exciting and terrifying in equal measure to see these two leaders study one another. They were complete opposites: the teenager on the one hand smirking and cocky and the monarch on the other looking more like a stone statue than a man._

 _"Why have you come here, boy?" The Exalt asked in an icy tone.  
_

 _"What else would I have come here for? I'm here to challenge you of course."_

* * *

The wind was gusting out on the balcony, forcing Raines to take an upwind position so his curls wouldn't blow into his face.

"Why did you want to talk out here?" the regent questioned, folding his arms. "I'm sure we could have done this inside just as well."

"Raines, what do you see when you look out at the city?" Gangrel asked calmly, leaning against the railing. "I'm sure you must do that from time to time."

The younger man's dark eyes flickered over the buildings so far below, lingering for a moment on the city center, the large square clearly divided by a dark line of Grimleal snaking through the crowds.

"I see life continuing on as it always has, our country finally repairing from the war," he stated curtly. "What of it?"

"C'mon, I know you're smarter than that," the former king remarked casually. "Surely you notice the differences."

"Would you please just make your point already?"

Raines' voice was a touch strained, the request coming across more as a demand with his tone. Gangrel let out a huff, pushing back his bangs and letting his hand travel down to massage the back of his neck.

"I was there yesterday—in the markets, among the people. The city reeks of fear; the normal citizens don't know when their religious leaders will turn on them again; they don't have anyone in power they can turn to for support or protection. If you're not careful, the first signs of violence will begin to emerge."

The Fell Priest rested his hands on the railing as well, the gesture almost delicate as he stared out towards the dessert where one of the largest of Grima's temples stood.

"I don't think you understand the precarious nature of my position, Gangrel, no matter what you see in the peasant folk," Rained murmured. " _Everyone_ is scared. We saw our god fall from the skies, lost family to the rituals and Ylissean blades alike. I must maintain our traditions to keep panic and apostasy from spreading throughout all the nation and destroying our way of life."

The lanky redhead frowned at his blood brother, eyebrows drawing tightly together in confusion before they raised in incredulous disbelief.

"...it's the rest of the Dragon's Council that's got you thinking like that, isn't it?" Gangrel said softly. The way Raines flinched was answer enough and drew a sigh from the trickster. "I thought now that you outranked them that you wouldn't let them puppeteer you anymore."

"...authority is one thing, actual power is quite another." The words were almost whispered, more to himself than to the older man. Straightening his shoulders, the regent's hands curled into fists, his dark gaze—just like his cousin's—narrowed and hardened. "If that is all you have to say, Gangrel, then we have nothing more to discuss; I am aware of the people's fear, but I am working to restore Plegia to her former heights. In time, this will all settle on its own."

"Raines, please, listen to me," the former king implored, stepping towards his blood brother and reaching out a hand to grasp his shoulder, wanting to look him in the eye. "If Plegia stays divided like this—"

"I will not be the weak link!" Raines spat, jerking out of reach, eyes flashing and lip curled into a snarl. "I will not let my uncle's prophesy come true!"

Silence penetrated the air between them, interrupted only by the occasional gusts of wind that tousled their hair and tossed their cloaks about. Dropping out of his hostile stance, the dark-haired Grimleal stood rigid, formality radiating off him.

"We've left your lovely fiancee for too long," he stated coldly. "Perhaps we should return now and resume our previous, far more pleasant conversation."

Raines then brushed past the trickster and re-entered the seating room, closing the door behind him. Gangrel absentmindedly ran his hand over his upper chest, right over the scar that Chrom had left him with a few years ago. For some reason, the whole thing was aching, the strongest point exactly where it crossed over and had barely missed his heart.

* * *

 _Gangrel put his hands on his hips and waited for the Ylissean monarch to stop laughing. After about a minute, the hilarity wore off and the large man gazed down pityingly at the teen.  
_

 _"I now see why one of your titles declares you mad," the exalt drawled. "Do you wish for death so much that you would attempt to engage me?"_

 _"I thought duels and all that ceremonial garbage were exactly what you Ylisseans were all about," the trickster replied with equal sass. "There's so much pomp involved with your little 'duels' that it should serve to entertain everyone here. Do I have to throw my glove at you to make it official?"_

 _"I will tale great pleasure in silencing you," the golden-armored man declared. "I accept your challenge, boy. Pray to your heathen god and beg he receives you into his hell."_

 _All according to_ _plan_ _, the redhead mused, drawing his steel sword and giving it a few swings to loosen up his arm. His opponent, meanwhile, had taken a silver blade for himself and was mounting a white warhorse, the animal equally decorated with the blue of Ylisse's flag. The exalt looked as though he was waiting for Gangrel to complain, but all he was given was a shrug._

 _"This is a duel to the death," the Ylissean announced loudly, his men moving in to close a ring around them. "Your man will be appointed messenger and is to guide me to your troops when you fall."  
_

 _"Oh...we'll see about that," the trickster replied in a sing-song tone, his smile wolfish and hungry, scarlet eyes flashing with an inhuman bloodlust._


End file.
